Mrs. Stone made no particular answer. She put her feet upon the comfortable velvet cushion before the fire, and smiled. She did not care to enter upon explanations, but she had made up her mind. The fire was bright, the bird had been good, and her modest glass of claret was excellent. She was altogether in a balmy humor, willing to enjoy the many comforts of her life, and to feel benevolently toward her neighbor. “I think you are right,” she said, “and perhaps I am prejudiced. He is a rising young man. We have met him two or three times at the rectory, so he can not be a Dissenter; but he is not a gentleman either. How should he be, being one of those Rainys? I shouldn’t wonder if it was to keep him out.” “If what was to keep him out?” “By the way,” said Mrs. Stone, “I have a letter to write. Don’t let me keep you out of bed, Ellen. I am very much behind in family correspondence. Have any of the St. Clairs ever been at the White House since we came here? I can’t recollect.” “Not one,” said Miss Southwood, with a beating heart. “Not one; and I have often thought, Maria, considering all things, and that they have no father, poor things, and are not very well off--and so nice, both sisters and brothers--” “One does not want so many arguments. Frank may come and pay us a visit if he likes,” said Mrs. Stone, with much amiability. But it was not till the morning, when she came down first, as she always did, and put the letter, which had been left on Mrs. Stone’s private writing-table, ready for the early post, in the letter-bag, that Miss Southwood had the satisfaction of seeing that it was addressed to the favorite nephew, whose name she had not ventured to pronounce for a second time. Mrs. Stone had not been inattentive to the vision, the intimation, whether from heaven or the other place. He was to come and try his fortune in those lists. Miss Southwood went about her occupations all day as if she trod on air; but she kept her lips tightly shut, and never asked a question. She was discretion itself. As for Mrs. Stone, after she had done it, many doubts suggested themselves. It was not for nothing, not by mere vice of temperament that she obeyed her own impulses so readily. Like all impulsive people, she was subject to cold fits as well is hot; but like many other impulsive people, she had learned that it was her best policy to obey the first imperious movement of nature. The thing was done, at all events, before the struggle of judgment began. And the answer she made to her own objections was a mysterious one. “Why not I as well as Lady Randolph?” was what she said to herself. CHAPTER X. CHATTER. “Do you know,” said Katie Russell, “there is a gentleman in the house? None of us have seen him; but he came yesterday. He is young, and tall, and nice-looking. He is their nephew. Mademoiselle says it is quite improper. Of course she oughtn’t to say so; and the girls don’t know what to think; for you know it is queer.”