As for that culprit, she completed her work, from her own position of perfect security, with complacency at least. And she felt at the end of her evening (which we needn't dwell on, as it was all crotchets, minims, and F sharps and G flats) that her entrenchments had become spontaneously stronger without exertion on her part. For there were Tishy and Mr. Bradshaw, between whom Sally had certainly understood there was a great gulf fixed, sitting on the very same sofa and talking about a Stradivarius. She concluded that, broadly speaking, Debrett's bark is worse than his bite, and that he is, at heart, a very accommodating character. "I hope you saw Tishy, mamma dear." So spoke Sally to her mother, after the musicians first, and then Fenwick, had dispersed their several ways. Mrs. Nightingale seemed very _distraite_ and preoccupied. "Saw Tishy what, kitten?" "Tishy and Mr. Bradshaw on that sofa." "No, darling. Oh yes, I did. What about them?" "After all that rumpus about shop-boys!" But her mother's attention is not easy to engage this evening, somehow. Her mind seems somewhere else altogether. But from where it is, it sees the vulgar child very plainly indeed, as she puts up her face to be kissed with all its animation on it. She kisses it, animation and all, caressing the rich black hair with a hand that seems thoughtful. A hand can. Then she makes a little effort to shake off something that draws her away, and comes back rather perfunctorily to her daughter's sphere of interest and the life of town. "Did Laetitia call Mr. Bradshaw a shop-boy, chick?" "Very nearly--at least, I don't know what you call not calling anybody shop-boy if she didn't." Her mother makes a further effort--comes back a little more. "What did she say, child?" "Said you could always tell, and it was no use my talking, and the negro couldn't change his spots." "She has some old-fashioned ideas. But how about calling him a shop-boy?" "Not in words, but worse. Tishy always goes round and round. I wish she'd _say_! However, Dr. Vereker quite agrees with me. _We_ think it _dishonest_!" "What did Dr. Vereker think of Mr. Bradshaw?" We have failed to note that the doctor was the 'cello in the quartet. "Now, mamma darling, fancy asking Dr. Prosy what he thinks! I wasn't going to. Besides, as if it mattered what they think of each other!... Who? Why, men, of course!" "Mr. Fenwick's a man, and you asked him." "Mr. Fenwick's a man on other lines--absolutely other. He doesn't come in really." Her mother repeats the last four words, not exactly derisively--rather, if anything, her accent and her smile may be said to caress her daughter's words as she says them. She is such a silly, but such a dear little goose--that seems the implication.