“Then, if true,” she answered Caroline’s assurances finally, “if true, he is not his father’s son!”
By which it may be seen that she had indeed taken refuge in the Castle of Negation against the whole army of facts.
“He is acting, Carry. He is acting the ideas of his ridiculous empty noddle!”
“No,” said Caroline, mournfully, “he is not. I have never known Evan to lie.”
“Then you must forget the whipping he once had from his mother—little dolt! little selfish pig! He obtains his reputation entirely from his abominable selfishness, and then stands tall, and asks us to admire him. He bursts with vanity. But if you lend your credence to it, Carry, how, in the name of goodness, are you to appear at the breakfast?
“I was going to ask you whether you would come,” said Caroline, coldly.
“If I can get my hair to lie flat by any means at all, of course!” returned the Countess. “This dreadful horrid country pomade! Why did we not bring a larger stock of the Andalugian Regenerator? Upon my honour, my dear, you use a most enormous quantity; I must really tell you that.”
Conning here entered to say that Mr. Evan had given orders for the boxes to be packed and everything got ready to depart by half-past eleven o’clock, when the fly would call for them and convey them to Fallowfield in time to meet the coach for London.
The Countess turned her head round to Caroline like an astonished automaton.
“Given orders!” she interjected.