Poor soul! All the charm and glitter of her little social adventure was gone. When she once more emerged upon the lawn, and languidly readjusted her spectacles, she was weighed down by the thought that in two hours Mrs. Seaton would be upon her. Nothing of this kind ever happened to Mrs. Seaton. The universe obeyed her nod. No carrier conveying goods to her august door ever got drunk or failed to deliver his consignment. The thing was inconceivable. Mrs. Thornburgh was well aware of it. Should William be informed? Mrs. Thornburgh had a rooted belief in the brutality of husbands in all domestic crises, and would have preferred not to inform him. But she had also a dismal certainty that the secret would burn a hole in her till it was confessed--bill and all. Besides--frightful thought!--would they have to eat up all those _meringues_ next day? Her reflections at last became so depressing that, with a natural epicurean instinct, she tried violently to turn her mind away from them. Luckily she was assisted by a sudden perception of the roof and chimneys of Burwood, the Leyburns’ house, peeping above the trees to the left. At sight of them a smile overspread her plump and gently wrinkled face. She fell gradually into a train of thought, as feminine as that in which she had been just indulging, but infinitely more pleasing. For, with regard to the Leyburns, at this present moment Mrs. Thornburgh felt herself in the great position of tutelary divinity or guardian angel. At least if divinities and guardian angels do not concern themselves with the questions to which Mrs. Thornburgh’s mind was now addressed, it would clearly have been the opinion of the vicar’s wife that they ought to do so. ‘Who else is there to look after these girls, I should like to know,’ Mrs. Thornburgh inquired of herself, ‘if I don’t do it? As if girls married themselves! People may talk of their independence nowadays as much as they like--it always has to be done for them, one way or another. Mrs. Leyburn, poor lackadaisical thing! is no good whatever. No more is Catherine. They both behave as if husbands tumbled into your mouth for the asking. Catherine’s too good for this world--but if she doesn’t do it, I must. Why, that girl Rose is a beauty--if they didn’t let her wear those ridiculous mustard-colored things, and do her hair fit to frighten the crows! Agnes too--so ladylike and well mannered; she’d do credit to any man. Well, we shall see, we shall see!’ And Mrs. Thornburgh gently shook her gray curls from side to side, while, her eyes, fixed on the open spare room window, shone with meaning. ‘So eligible, too--private means, no encumbrances, and as good as gold.’ She sat lost a moment in a pleasing dream.