“To fill his pipe and light it, aunt. To bring his slippers. To cook for the pure joy of watching him eat. To perform those humble, lowly, feminine duties small in themselves yet that, in the sum, make for the glory of true womanhood and lift her nigh the angels.... Thus it went somewhat, the rest I ha’ forgot.” “Pipe?” murmured the bewildered Duchess. “Slippers? Whose?” “Thy monster’s, aunt.” “Herminia, my poor child! Thou’rt distraught—’tis the sun to-day——” “Nay, aunt, ’twas Sir John Dering, weeks ago.” “Ha!” exclaimed the little Duchess loudly, and sitting up with sudden new interest. “What of the dear man?” “‘Dear man,’ indeed!” repeated my lady, clenching white hands and stamping both feet at once. “What of him? Oh, the devil confound him!” Here my lady’s deep bosom surged tempestuously, her eyes glowed, her delicate nostrils dilated; in fine, she manifested all those symptoms of unruly anger that may be vented only by your very great lady high above the vulgar herd, on your slatternly virago very far below. All of which the Duchess, wise in most things pertaining to her own sex, noted with her keen, shrewd eyes. “My poor Herminia!” she sighed. “How long have ye been in love with him?” “Love?” gasped my lady. “In love?.... Listen, aunt; I feel for him such unutterable deeps of bitter scorn, such unspeakable loathing, such a world o’ detestation that I yearn to have him truly in love with me.” “Why, to be sure, child!” nodded the Duchess. “Most feminine, under the circumstances.” “Aunt, could I but once see him truly serious! Could I but once shake his hateful calm, his cold, passionless self-assurance ... oh, then!” “What then, Herminia?” At this direct question, my lady looked a trifle blank, whereupon the Duchess answered for her: “Why then, child, you would make of his passion a mock, to be sure, trample his humble love under your proud hoofs—I mean feet—laugh his suit to scorn——” “Can you doubt it, aunt?” “Never for one moment, my sweet.” “He should learn at last the deep measure of a woman’s scorn, aunt!” “Yes, my love. And then?” “Then, aunt, why ... I should at least be satisfied.” “I wonder, child!... So here is why you will to Sussex?” “And to find thee a husband, aunt.” “Tush for that, thou sly minx! But to watch thee weaving webs for an unwary he, casting thy spells, luring the poor wretch to distraction and destruction.... Hum!” “Then we’ll start at the earliest moment, dear aunt. Let it be thought we are for your house in Surrey or Kent—or anywhere you will. But once in Sussex we must forget your rank; you must be a superior inferior person, aunt, or better—a decayed gentlewoman.” “Horrors—no, Herminia! I refuse to be anything so infinite abhorrent. Lud! I should sound like a corpse!” “Howbeit thou wilt always be my little, loved, clever aunt.” “But think, Herminia! What will the world say?” “Everything that is sayable, aunt; but what matter?” “But where must we live, Herminia?”