The mother, as is often the case in these days of improvement, had scarcely so much force of character as the daughter. She never dared cross-question “Cissy” beyond a certain point. Not that the girl was rebellious, but she had a quiet way of setting her mamma down, which was as uncomfortable as it was irresistible. Mrs. Dove, however, was not without her share of matronly cunning. She had been young herself, and had not forgotten it; nay, she felt quite young again sometimes, even now. It does not follow that because a lady increases in bulk she should decrease in susceptibility. Look at a German baroness—fifteen stone good, in her ball dress, and _æsthetic_ to the tips of her plump fingers. Mamma got up to fetch her scissors; cut the little boy’s shirt to the true _Corazza_ pattern, and, holding up that ridiculous little garment as if to dry, went on with her argument. “I don’t think much of that Mr. Sawbridge after all, if you ask _me_,” said she, looking over the collar full in her daughter’s face. “He seems very shy, by no means good-looking, and I should say has not seen much of the world! Steadier perhaps than Brush, and not so stout as Struggles, but yet he don’t give me the idea of a very gentlemanlike person—like Mr. Crasher, for instance.” The Honourable was one of the good lady’s great favourites. She admired hugely, as country dames will, his languor, his _insouciance_, his recklessness and dandyism—above all, his tendency to become torpid at a moment’s notice, which latter faculty frequently provoked the strong-minded “Cissy” beyond endurance. The girl’s colour, always high, rose perceptibly. Like a true woman, she stood up for her new friend. “Indeed, Mamma,” said she, “Mr. Sawyer is quite as gentlemanlike as anybody we meet anywhere, and as for being shy, I confess I like people all the better for not being forward, like that rude Mr. Savage, who told me I should look hideous with my hair _à l’Impératrice_. Now, Mr. Sawyer at least _tries_ to make himself agreeable.” “And seems to succeed, Cissy,” rejoined Mamma, with an arch smile that deepened the young lady’s colour still more, and consequently heightened her resemblance to her buxom parent. “Well, dear, I must remind Papa about asking some of them to dinner. Shall I tell him to send Mr. Sawbridge an invitation?” “Really, I don’t the least care,” answered Miss Dove, with a toss of her shining black hair. “I suppose you can’t well leave him out. But, Mamma, I wish you would call the man by his right name. It isn’t Sawbridge, but Sawyer.” “I’ll try and remember, Cissy,” answered her mother, with another of those provoking smiles, which might have been too much for the young lady’s equanimity, had not the entrance of the Reverend, bringing with him a strong perfume of tobacco, stables, and James’s horse-blister, put an end to the _tête-à-tête_, and diverted Mrs. Dove’s attack to her natural prey.