"Well, what is a man to say? Don't you see, if you do nothing but blow his trumpet, the only thing left for me to do is to insinuate something against him? I don't know the man from Adam. He may be an angel, for anything I can say." "No; I do not pretend he is that," said Elinor, with impartiality. "He has his faults, like others, but they are _nice_ faults. He doesn't know how to take care of his money (but he hasn't got very much, which makes it the less matter), and he is sometimes taken in about his friends. Anybody almost that appeals to his kindness is treated like a friend, which makes precise people think----but, of course, I don't share that opinion in the very least." ("A very wasteful beggar, with a disreputable set," was John's practical comment within himself upon this speech.) "And he doesn't know how to curry favour with people who can help him on; so that though he has been for years promised something, it never turns up. Oh, I know his faults very well indeed," said Elinor; "but a woman can do so much to make up for faults like that. We're naturally saving, you know, and we always keep those unnecessary friends that were made before our time at a distance; and it's part of our nature to coax a patron--that is what Mariamne says." "Mariamne?" said John. "His sister, who first introduced him to me; and I am very fond of her, so you need not say anything against her, John. I know she is--fashionable, but that's no harm." "Mariamne," he repeated; "it is a very uncommon name. You don't mean Lady Mariamne Prestwich, do you? and not--not----Elinor! not Phil Compton, for goodness' sake? Don't tell me he's the man?" Elinor's hands dropped from his arm. She drew herself up until she seemed to tower over him. "And why should I say it is not Mr. Compton," she asked, with a scarlet flush of anger, so different from that rosy red of love and happiness, covering her face. "Phil Compton! the _dis_-Honourable Phil! Why, Elinor! you cannot mean it! you must not mean it!" he cried.