"It is no use," said Lady Rythdale. "She may as well get accustomed to it. Others will tell her, if you do not."
There was silence. Eleanor felt displeased.
"Is she as good as she is pretty?" enquired Lady Rythdale.
"No, ma'am," said Eleanor in a low voice. The baroness laughed. Her son smiled. Eleanor was vexed at herself for speaking.
"Mamma, is not Rochefoucauld here somewhere?"
"Rochefoucauld? what do you want of him?"
"I want to call this lady to account for some of her opinions. Here he is. Now Eleanor," said he tossing the book into her lap and sitting down beside her,—"justify yourself."
Eleanor guessed he wanted to draw her out. She was not very ready. She turned over slowly the leaves of the book. Meanwhile Lady Rythdale again engaged her son in conversation which entirely overlooked her; and Eleanor thought her own thoughts; till Mr. Carlisle said with a little tone of triumph, "Well, Eleanor?—"
"What is it?" said Lady Rythdale.
"Human nature, ma'am; that is the question."