"You wouldn't find Theodosia behaving in such a manner. She understands what's becoming. I dare say she's not so clever as you are----" "Dear mamma, this is cruel----" "Don't interrupt me. No, no; I see through most things. This Miss Howe is always reading. I saw her just now with some novel, I've no doubt, which she shouldn't read----" "It was Kingsley's----" "Hold your tongue, child. Yes, reading, and with a pen stuck behind her ear." "She's so very lonely: and Mrs. Howe is so very severe with her." "I have no doubt it's quite necessary; there, go and dress for the table d'hote, and mind what I say." Poor Lucy wondered what on earth could have happened that Carrie Cockayne avoided her: and what those furtive nods of the head and stolen smiles at her could mean? On the other hand, how had she offended Mrs. Cockayne? Happily, Mrs. Rowe was on Lucy's side; for it had pleased Mrs. Cockayne to show her social superiority by extravagant coldness and formality whenever she had occasion to address "the landlady." One thing Mrs. Cockayne admitted she could NOT understand--viz., Why Jane the servant took so much upon herself with her mistress; and what all the mystery was about a Mr. Charles, who seemed to be a dark shadow, kept somewhere as far as possible in the background of the house. Mrs. Rowe, on her side, was amply revenged for Mrs. Cockayne's airs of superiority, when Mr. Cockayne arrived in the company of Mr. John Catt, the betrothed love of Theodosia. "You must be mad, Mr. Cockayne," was his wife's greeting directly they were alone--"raving mad to bring that vulgar fellow John Catt with you. Didn't you get my letters?" "I did, my dear; and they brought me over, and John Catt with me. I, at least, intend to act an honourable part." "Perhaps you will explain yourself, Mr. Cockayne." "I have travelled from Clapham for that purpose. Who the devil is this Viscount de Gars, to begin with?" Mrs. Cockayne drew herself up to her full height, and looked through her husband--or meant to look through him--but just then he was not to be cowed even by Mrs. Cockayne. With provoking coolness and deliberation over the exact relative quantities, Mr. Cockayne mixed himself a glass of grog from his brandy flask; while he proceeded to inform his wife that Mr. John Catt, who had been engaged, with their full consent, to their daughter, had, at his instigation, travelled to Paris to understand what all this ridiculous twaddle about Viscount de Gars meant. "You will spoil everything," Mrs. Cockayne gasped, "as usual."