Amelia pulled herself up a little. She had been running on rather too heedlessly. Some things had latterly been said of Mrs. Bransby which could scarcely be repeated with propriety to a young lady--at least, according to Amelia's code of what was proper. "Oh, my dear Miranda," she stammered, "the world is ever censorious; but as the lyric bard so beautifully puts it-- 'I'd weep when friends deceive me, If _thou_ wert like them, untrue.' Although why it is taken for granted that friends--in any true sense of the word--should be expected to deceive, I must leave to meta-physics to determine!" Mrs. Dormer-Smith here put in her word. "Oh, we had already heard of these scandals," she said. "My niece was inclined to doubt their existence, I believe. I hope you are convinced now, May!" "Really!" exclaimed Mrs. Simpson, glancing with growing uneasiness from May to her aunt. Something, she perceived, was wrong--but what? "Dear Mrs. Simpson," said May, "I am very sure that whoever else was unkind and scandalous, you were not." "Ever the same sweet nature!" murmured Amelia; "but, perhaps, it was not so much that people were unkind, not exactly unkind, but mistaken. You see, when a person tells you a thing, positively, there is a certain unkindness in not believing it! And yet, on the other hand, one would not willingly accept evil reports of a fellow-creature. There is a difficulty in harmoniously blending the two horns of this dilemma--if I may be allowed to say so--which, to some extent, excuses error." The good lady's habitual confusion of ideas was increased by the nervous fear that she had said something unfortunate. She brought her visit to an end earlier than she otherwise might have done; and in taking effusive leave of May she whispered-- "I trust I did not commit any solecism against the code of manners which belongs to the _élite_ of the _haut ton_, in alluding to our fair friend, Mrs. B----?" "No, no," answered May gently; "don't vex yourself by thinking so." Mrs. Simpson brightened up a little, and asked aloud, "And what message shall I give to grandmamma?" May scarcely recognized "Granny" under this appellation, adopted in honour of Mrs. Dormer-Smith's social distinction. But after an instant she said-- "Oh, give her my dear love; I shall write to her to-morrow. And, please, my love to Uncle Jo." "Ah, I recognize our dear Miranda's affectionate constancy there!" cried Amelia. "Mr. Weatherhead will be much gratified." "Gratified! I think he would have a right to be disgusted if I forgot him! Dear, good, honest, kind-hearted Uncle Jo!" "_Who_ is this person?" demanded Pauline, genuinely aghast at the idea that some hitherto unknown brother of Susan Dobbs was in existence. The one extenuating circumstance in that unfortunate marriage had always appeared to her to be the fact that Susan was an only child.