“Stay, stay,” cried Miss Fane, following her briskly; “I would not have said all this if I had not--if I did not _love_ you, and if I had not altogether your good at heart. You surely do not think it can be pleasant for me to doubt my own nephew?”--but it was very pleasant--“I only want to open your eyes, my poor dear child, in case of the worst. There is no one to perform this very disagreeable, thankless duty, except myself. I mean all for the best, I do indeed,” taking Alice into her bony embrace and kissing her effusively. Alice, on the verge of hysterics, her brain reeling, gladly escaped upstairs, to lock herself into her own room for the remainder of the day, where she had ample leisure to digest and understand Miss Fane’s ideas. * * * * * Miss Fane, as we have already seen, had no love for her nephew, and, as far as the certificate was concerned, he was already tried, found guilty, and condemned, in her opinion. A domestic tragedy, such as this promised to be, was her glory and delight. Slander and gossip of all kinds were as the breath of her nostrils; her letters, thoughts, and conversation all turned in that direction; and she was an adept at serving up the most delicate dish of scandal, accompanied by sauce piquante, and followed by entrées of her own suggestions. She had the worst opinion of the world and everybody in general, an opinion she prudently kept to herself. An affair in her own little circle, such as this was likely to be, would afford her materials for conversation and letters for an indefinite time. It would give her a certain importance, too, to say: “I was in the house at the time when it all happened; I saw and heard everything with my own eyes and ears.” She had no respect for her nephew’s name--_she_ was not a Fairfax--no pity for his young wife. The excitement of a _cause célèbre_ in her family caused her neither shame nor horror; quite the reverse. She knitted the heel of a stocking; made an excellent lunch off fish cutlets, curried fowl, tarts, and cream; took an airing in the pony-carriage; and awaited Geoffrey’s return with imperturbable mien. “Alice would return to live with her,” she reflected, “if this turned out as she imagined; and she would make her a handsome allowance, say three thousand pounds a-year, as before. Brighton or Cheltenham would suit her best; she loathed the country, and would be able to give nice little dinners, card-parties, and suppers, and keep a brougham and pair--bays or grays--iron-grays looked dashing; mulberry livery and silver buttons, and of course a cockade--it looked so smart. Perhaps a victoria, too, for summer.”