Rose was much behind her age: she could not tell what was the matter with her. In these little torments young people have to pass through they gain a rapid maturity. Let a girl talk with her own heart an hour, and she is almost a woman. Rose came down-stairs dressed for riding. Laxley was doing her the service of smoking one of her rose-trees. Evan stood disengaged, prepared for her summons. She did not notice him, but beckoned to Laxley drooping over a bud, while the curled smoke floated from his lips.
“The very gracefullest of chimney-pots—is he not?” says the Countess to Harry, whose immense guffaw fails not to apprise Laxley that something has been said of him, for in his dim state of consciousness absence of the power of retort is the prominent feature, and when he has the suspicion of malicious tongues at their work, all he can do is silently to resent it. Probably this explains his conduct to Evan. Some youths have an acute memory for things that have shut their mouths.
The Countess observed to Harry that his dear friend Mr. Laxley appeared, by the cast of his face, to be biting a sour apple.
“Grapes, you mean?” laughed Harry. “Never mind! she’ll bite at him when he comes in for the title.”
“Anything crude will do,” rejoined the Countess. “Why are you not courting Mrs. Evremonde, naughty Don?”
“Oh! she’s occupied—castle’s in possession. Besides—!” and Harry tried hard to look sly.
“Come and tell me about her,” said the Countess.
Rose, Laxley, and Evan were standing close together.
“You really are going alone, Rose?” said Laxley.
“Didn’t I say so?—unless you wish to join us?” She turned upon Evan.