Mrs. Bertram saw a very good reason why they should not.  Therefore the Rector’s dreams came apparently to nothing.

CHAPTER III.

A GENTLEMAN, MADAM.

Only apparently.  Every one knows how small the little rift within the lute is.  So are most beginnings.

Mrs. Bertram felt, that in her way, she had effected quite a victory.  She stepped into her brougham to return to Rosendale Manor with a pleasing sense of triumph.

“I am thankful to say that ordeal is over,” she remarked.  “And I think,” she continued, with a smile, “that when the Northbury people see my cards, awaiting them on their humble hall-tables, they will have learnt their lesson.”

Neither of the girls made any response to this speech.  Mabel was leaning back in the carriage looking bored and cross, but Catherine’s expression was unusually bright.

“Mother,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I met such a nice girl at the bazaar.”

“You made an acquaintance at the bazaar, my dear Catherine,” answered Mrs. Bertram with alacrity.  “You made an acquaintance?  The acquaintance of a girl?  Who?”

“Her name is Beatrice Meadowsweet.  She is a dear, delightful, fresh girl, and exactly my own age.”

Catherine’s dark face was all aglow.  Her handsome brown eyes shone with interest and pleasure.

“Catherine, how often, how very often have I told you that expressions of rapture such as you have just given way to are underbred.”

“Why are they underbred, mother?” Catherine’s tone was aggressive, and Mabel again kicked her sister’s foot.

The kick was returned with vigor, and Catherine said in an earnest though deliberate voice: 

“Why are expressions of rapture underbred?  Can enthusiasm, that fire of the gods, be vulgar?”

“Kate, you are cavilling.  Expressions of rapture generally show a lack of breeding because as a rule they are exaggerated, therefore untrue.  In this case they are manifestly untrue, for how is it possible for you to tell that the girl you have just been speaking to is dear, delightful, and fresh?”

“Her face is fresh, her manners are fresh, her expression is delightful.  There is no use, mother, you can’t crush me.  I am in love with Beatrice Meadowsweet.”

Mrs. Bertram’s brow became clouded.  It was one of the bitter defeats which she had ever and anon to acknowledge to herself that, in the midst of her otherwise victorious career, she could never get the better of her eldest daughter Catherine.

“Who introduced you to this girl?” she asked, after a pause.

“The Rector.  He saw me standing by one of the stalls, looking what I felt—­awfully bored.  He came up in his kind way and took my hand, and said:  ’My dear, you don’t know any one, I am afraid.  You would like to make some acquaintances, would you not?’ I replied:  ’I am most anxious to know some of the nice people all around me.’”