Dinner waited ten minutes, and then the defaulters appeared. Nothing was said, but Vizard looked rather glum; and Aunt Maitland cast a vicious look at Severne and Zoe: they had made a forced march, and outflanked her. She sat down, and bided her time, like a fowler waiting till the ducks come within shot.
But the conversation was commonplace, inconsecutive, shifty, and vague, and it was two hours before anything came within shot: all this time not a soul suspected the ambushed fowler.
At last, Vizard, having thrown out one of his hints that the fair sex are imperfect, Fanny, being under the influence of Miss Maitland's revelations, ventured to suggest that they had no more faults than men, and certainly were not more deceitful.
“Indeed?” said Vizard. “Not—more—deceitful! Do you speak from experience?”
“Oh, no, no,” said Fanny, getting rather frightened. “I only think so, somehow.”
“Well, but you must have a reason. May I respectfully inquire whether more men have jilted you than you have jilted?”
“You may inquire as respectfully as you like; but I shan't tell you.”
“That is right, Miss Dover,” said Severne; “don't you put up with his nonsense. He knows nothing about it: women are angels, compared with men. The wonder is, how they can waste so much truth and constancy and beauty upon the foul sex. To my mind, there is only one thing we beat you in; we do stick by each other rather better than you do. You are truer to us. We are a little truer to each other.”
“Not a little,” suggested Vizard, dryly.
“For my part,” said Zoe, blushing pink at her boldness in advancing an opinion on so large a matter, “I think these comparisons are rather narrow-minded. What have we to do with bad people, male or female? A good man is good, and a good woman is good. Still, I do think that women have greater hearts to love, and men, perhaps, greater hearts for friendship:” then, blushing roseate, “even in the short time we have been here we have seen two gentlemen give up pleasure for self-denying friendship. Lord Uxmoor gave us all up for a sick friend. Mr. Severne did more, perhaps; for he lost that divine singer. You will never hear her now, Mr. Severne.”