“Yes, Louisa. It may not last... I did it—is it not better that a son should blush, than cast dishonour on his father’s memory?”
“Ridiculous boy-notion!”
“Rose has pardoned it, Louisa—cannot you? I find that the naturally vulgar and narrow-headed people, and cowards who never forego mean advantages, are those only who would condemn me and my conduct in that.”
“And you have joy in your fraction of the world left to you!” exclaimed his female-elder.
Changeing her manner to a winning softness, she said:
“Let me also belong to the very small party! You have been really romantic, and most generous and noble; only the shop smells! But, never mind, promise me you will not enter it.”
“I hope not,” said Evan.
“You do hope that you will not officiate? Oh, Evan the eternal contemplation of gentlemen’s legs! think of that! Think of yourself sculptured in that attitude!” Innumerable little prickles and stings shot over Evan’s skin.
“There—there, Louisa!” he said, impatiently; “spare your ridicule. We go to London to-morrow, and when there I expect to hear that I have an appointment, and that this engagement is over.” He rose and walked up and down the room.
“I shall not be prepared to go to-morrow,” remarked the Countess, drawing her figure up stiffly.