“To have been beaten in one's own town, where we own every stick and stone in the place, really requires some explanation; and the more I reflect upon it, the more mysterious does it seem. Repton, indeed, had much to say to it. He is so indiscreet,—eh, don't you think so?”
“He is very vain of his conversational powers, my Lady, and, like all clever talkers, says too much.”
“Just so. But I don't think him even agreeable. I deem him a bore,” said my Lady, snappishly. “That taste for story-telling—that anecdotic habit—is quite vulgar; nobody does it now.”
Kate listened, as though too eager for instruction to dare to lose a word, and her Ladyship went on:—
“In the first place, everybody—in society, I mean—knows every story that can or ought to be told; and, secondly, a narrative always interrupts conversation, which is a game to be played by several.”
Kate nodded slightly, as though to accord as much acquiescence as consorted with great deference.
“It is possible, therefore,” resumed her Ladyship, “that he may have divulged many things in that careless way he talked; and my niece, too, may have been equally silly. In fact, one thing is clear,—the enemy acquired a full knowledge of our tactics, and met every move we made by another. I was prepared for all the violence, all the insult, all the licentious impertinence and ribaldry of such a contest; but certainly I reckoned on success.” Another long and dreary pause ensued, and Lady Dorothea's countenance grew sadder and more clouded as she sat in moody silence. At length a faint tinge of color marked her cheek; her eyes sparkled, and it was in a voice of more than ordinary energy she said: “If they fancy, however, that we shall accept defeat with submission, they are much mistaken. They have declared the war, and it shall not be for them to proclaim peace on the day they 've gained a victory. And Miss Martin also must learn that her Universal Benevolence scheme must give way to the demands of a just retribution. Have you made out the list I spoke of?”
“Yes, my Lady, in part; some details are wanting, but there are eighteen cases here quite perfect.”
“These are all cottiers,—pauper tenants,” said Lady Dorothea, scanning the paper superciliously through her eyeglass.
“Not all, my Lady; here, for instance, is Dick Sheehan, the blacksmith, who has worked for the castle twenty-eight years, and who holds a farm called Mulianahogue, on a terminable lease.”