“We don't believe in Mrs. Wilson's affection on this side the table,” said Mr. Hardie; “but her revelations interest us, for they prove that Miss Fountain had a beginning. Now we had thought she rose from the foam like Venus, or sprung from Jove's brow like Minerva, or descended from some ancient pedestal, flawless as the Parian itself.” “What, sir,” cried Bazalgette, furiously, “did you think our niece was built in a day? So fair a structure, so accomplished a--” “Will you be quiet, good people?” said Mrs. Bazalgette. “She was born, she was bred, she was brought up, in which I had a share, and she is a very good girl, if you gentlemen will be so good as not to spoil her for me with your flattery.” “There!” said Lucy, courageously, enforcing her aunt's thunderbolt; and she leaned toward Mrs. Bazalgette, and shot back a glance of defiance, with arching neck, at Mr. Bazalgette. After breakfast she ran to Mrs. Bazalgette. “What was it?” “Oh, nothing; only the gentlemen were beginning to grin.” “Oh, dear! did I say anything--ridiculous?” “No, because I stopped you in time. Mind, Lucy, it is never safe to read letters out from people in that class of life; they talk about everything, and use words that are quite out of date. I stopped you because I know you are a simpleton, and so I could not tell what might pop out next.” “Oh, thank you, aunt--thank you,” cried Lucy, warmly. “Then I did not expose myself, after all.” “No, no; you said nothing that might not be proclaimed at St. Paul's Cross--ha! ha!” “Am I a simpleton, aunt?” inquired Lucy, in the tone of an indifferent person seeking knowledge. “Not you,” replied this oblivious lady. “You know a great deal more than most girls of your age. To be sure, girls that have been at a fashionable school generally manage to learn one or two things you have no idea of.” “Naturally.” “As you say--he! he! But you make up for it, my dear, in other respects. If the gentlemen take you for a pane of glass, why, all the better; meantime, shall I tell you your real character? I have only just discovered it myself.” “Oh, yes, aunt, tell me my character. I should so like to hear it from you.” “Should you?” said the other, a little satirically; “well, then, you are an INNOCENT FOX.” “Aunt!” “An in-no-cent fox; so run and get your work-box. I want you to run up a tear in my flounce.” Lucy went thoughtfully for her workbox, murmuring ruefully, “I am an innocent fox--I am an in-nocent fox.” She did not like her new character at all; it mortified her, and seemed self-contradictory as well as derogatory. On her return she could not help remonstrating: “How can that be my character? A fox is cunning, and I despise cunning; and _I am sure_ I am not _innocent,”_ added she, putting up both hands and looking penitent. With all this, a shade of vexation was painted on her lovely cheeks as she appealed against her epigram.