“Your most devoted knight as long as this fearful invasion lasts!—your Amadis de Gaul—your Bertrand du Guesclin [45]! And no paladin of old ever attempted to defend a damsel from more formidable foes.” “Indeed, Adolphus, I don’t think them so formidable. Many of them are my own friends.” “Is Mrs Ellison your own friend?—or Mrs Moore?” “Not exactly those two, in particular.” “Who then? Is it Miss Judith O’Joscelyn? or is the Reverend Mr Hill one of those to whom you give that sweetest of all names?” “Yes; to both of them. It was only this morning I had a long _tête-à-tête_—” “What, with Mr Hill?” “No, not with Mr Hill—though it wouldn’t be the first even with him, but with Judith O’Joscelyn. I lent her a pattern for worsted work.” “And does that make her your friend? Do you give your friendship so easily?” “You forget that I’ve known her for years.” “Well, now, I’ve not. I’ve seen her about three times in my life, and spoken two words to her perhaps twice; and yet I’ll describe her character to you; and if you can say that the description is incorrect, I will permit you to call her your friend.” “Well, let’s hear the character.” “It wouldn’t be kind in me, though, to laugh at your _friend_.” “Oh, she’s not so especially and particularly my friend that you need mind that.” “Then you’ll promise not to be angry?” “Oh no, I won’t be angry.” “Well, then; she has two passions: they are for worsted and hymn-books. She has a moral objection to waltzing. Theoretically she disapproves of flirtations: she encourages correspondence between young ladies; always crosses her letters, and never finished one for the last ten years without expressing entire resignation to the will of God,—as if she couldn’t be resigned without so often saying so. She speaks to her confidential friends of young men as a very worthless, insignificant race of beings; she is, however, prepared to take the very first that may be unfortunate enough to come in her way; she has no ideas of her own, but is quick enough at borrowing those of other people; she considers herself a profound theologian; dotes on a converted papist, and looks on a Puseyite [46] as something one shade blacker than the devil. Now isn’t that sufficiently like for a portrait?” “It’s the portrait of a set, I fear, rather than an individual. I don’t know that it’s particularly like Miss O’Joscelyn, except as to the worsted and hymn-books.” “What, not as to the waltzing, resignation, and worthless young men? Come, are they not exactly her traits? Does she waltz?” “No, she does not.” “And haven’t you heard her express a moral objection to it?” “Well, I believe I have.” “Did you ever get a letter from her, or see a letter of hers?” “I don’t remember; yes, I did once, a long time ago.” “And wasn’t she very resigned in it?” “Well, I declare I believe she was; and it’s very proper too; people ought to be resigned.” “Oh, of course. And now doesn’t she love a convert and hate a Puseyite?”