“I guess? not I, indeed--not worth my guessing,” cried Dora, throwing herself sideways into a chair. “My tea, if you please, aunt.” Then, taking the cup, without adverting to Harry, who handed it to her, she began stirring the tea, as if it and all things shared her scorn. “Ma chère! mon chat!” said Mdlle. O’Faley, “you are quite right to spare yourself the trouble of guessing; for I give it you in two, I give it you in four, I give it you in eight, and you would never guess right. Figure to yourself only, that a man, who has the audacity to call himself a lover of Miss O’Shane’s, could fold, could seal, could direct a letter in such a manner as this, which you here behold.” Dora, who during this speech had sat fishing for sugar in her tea-cup, raised her long eyelashes, and shot a scornful glance at the letter; but intercepting a crossing look of Ormond’s, the expression of her countenance suddenly changed, and with perfect composure she observed, “A man may fold a letter badly, and be nevertheless a very good man.” “That nobody can possibly contradict,” said her father; “and on all occasions ‘tis a comfort to be able to say what no one can contradict.” “No well-bred person will never contradict nothing,” said Miss O’Faley. “But, without contradicting you, my child.” resumed Miss O’Faley, “I maintain the impossibility of his being a _gentleman_ who folds a letter so.” “But if folding a letter is all a man wants of being a gentleman,” said Dora, “it might be learnt, I should think; it might be taught--” “If you were the teacher, Dora, it might, surely,” said her father. “But Heaven, I trust, will arrange that better,” said mademoiselle. “Whatever Heaven arranges must be best,” said Dora. “Heaven and your father, if you please, Dora,” said her father: “put that and that together, like a dutiful daughter, as you must be.” “Must!” said Dora, angrily. “That offensive _must_ slipped out by mistake, darling; I meant only being _you_, you must be all that’s dutiful and good.” “Oh!” said Dora, “that’s another view of the subject.” “You have a very imperfect view of the subject, yet,” said her father; “for you have both been so taken up with the manner, that you have never thought of inquiring into the matter of this letter.” “And what is the matter?” said Miss O’Faley. “_Form_!” continued the father, addressing himself to his daughter; “_form_, I acknowledge, is one thing, and a great thing in a daughter’s eyes.” Dora blushed. “But in a father’s eyes substance is apt to be more.” Dora raised her cup and saucer together to her lips at this instant, so that the substance of the saucer completely hid her face from her father. “But,” said Miss O’Faley, “you have not told us yet what the man says.” “He says he will be here whenever we please.” “That’s never,” said Miss O’Faley: “never, I’d give for answer, if my pleasure is to be consulted.”