“Oh, yes, that he is. My sister Polly is perfectly devoted to him; but we don’t go to his church, except now and then, because my eldest sister is just one of those very old-fashioned people, you know, who want everything horrid and dull.” “That is hardly what our cousins think of Miss Prescott,” said Phyllis. “I am so sorry for her anxiety! But I was not sure of the name of her place.” “The Goyle! Isn’t it frightful?” said Vera. “You say she was unprepared for your adventure?” “Oh, yes, quite. Her notions are so dreadfully proper and old fashioned. She hasn’t got any sympathy, has she, Hubert?” “I don’t know,” he said gravely. “I have always had the greatest respect for her.” “Respect! So you ought. That’s just the thing one has for a slow dear old fogey,” she said, laughing, “Oh, Hubert!” There was a silence, and Lord Rotherwood made an observation upon the wind. Vera perceived an awkwardness, and, by way of repairing it, afterwards thought it expedient to communicate to Lady Phyllis that it might be a pity she had said “Hubert.” It was so awkward, only he was such an old acquaintance. “I should have thought the awkwardness was incurred long ago,” said Lady Phyllis. “Come, you will have no more concealments from Miss Prescott, will you? You will be ever so much more comfortable, and find out how kind she is.” “Oh, but!—” Vera wanted to talk over all her grievances for the pleasure of talking, saying very much what she had said before, and Phyllis tried to endure and put in as much sense as she could, without lecturing the girl, who struck her as the very silliest she had ever encountered; but she was continually called off to admire the receding French coast, or to look at the creatures brought up by dredging. She always took care to call Vera, and not let her feel herself left out; but Vera, if in solitude for a moment, reflected on the neglect shown of little people by great ones; and when called up to see uncanny slimy creatures, or even transparent balls like watery umbrellas, only was disgusted and horrified. She began to guess, rather truly, that Lady Phyllis wanted to hinder a _tête-à-tête_ between her and Hubert Delrio. In fact, Lord Rotherwood, who was much more of a sympathetic, confidence-inviting personage than his stiffer, much older seeming son, had said to his daughter, “Don’t let that poor lad and the girl get together alone, Fly; the boy thinks he is bound to make her an offer.” “Oh, father! Surely not!” “No more than if they had been two babies in a walnut shell. So I told him, but people don’t see what infants they are themselves, and I want to hinder him from putting his foot in it before he has seen her aunt—cousin—sister, or whoever it is that has the charge of her; and she has depicted to him a Gorgon, with Medusa’s hair, claws and all—a fancy sketch, isn’t it?” “Of course, sentimental schoolgirl colours! Mysie thinks her delightful.”