“Yes.  And Sir Charles is a man of great culture.  I cannot understand it.  Her size is really beyond everything, and her manners are bad.”

“Hm!” said Agatha with a wise air.  “There was always something about Jane that attracted men.  And she is more knave than fool.  But she is certainly a great ass.”

Gertrude looked serious, to imply that she had grown out of the habit of using or listening to such language.  Agatha, stimulated by this, continued: 

“Here are you and I, who consider ourselves twice as presentable and conversable as she, two old maids.”  Gertrude winced, and Agatha hastened to add:  “Why, as for you, you are perfectly lovely!  And she has asked us down expressly to marry us.”

“She would not presume—­”

“Nonsense, my dear Gertrude.  She thinks that we are a couple of fools who have mismanaged our own business, and that she, having managed so well for herself, can settle us in a jiffy.  Come, did she not say to you, before I came, that it was time for me to be getting married?”

“Well, she did.  But—­”

“She said exactly the same thing to me about you when she invited me.”

“I would leave her house this moment,” said Gertrude, “if I thought she dared meddle in my affairs.  What is it to her whether I am married or not?”

“Where have you been living all these years, if you do not know that the very first thing a woman wants to do when she has made a good match is to make ones for all her spinster friends.  Jane does not mean any harm.  She does it out of pure benevolence.”

“I do not need Jane’s benevolence.”

“Neither do I; but it doesn’t do any harm, and she is welcome to amuse herself by trotting out her male acquaintances for my approval.  Hush!  Here she comes.”

Gertrude subsided.  She could not quarrel with Lady Brandon without leaving the house, and she could not leave the house without returning to her home.  But she privately resolved to discourage the attentions of Erskine, suspecting that instead of being in love with her as he pretended, he had merely been recommended by Jane to marry her.

Chichester Erskine had made sketches in Palestine with Sir Charles, and had tramped with him through many European picture galleries.  He was a young man of gentle birth, and had inherited fifteen hundred a year from his mother, the bulk of the family property being his elder brother’s.  Having no profession, and being fond of books and pictures, he had devoted himself to fine art, a pursuit which offered him on the cheapest terms a high opinion of the beauty and capacity of his own nature.  He had published a tragedy entitled, “The Patriot Martyrs,” with an etched frontispiece by Sir Charles, and an edition of it had been speedily disposed of in presentations to the friends of the artist and poet, and to the reviews and newspapers.  Sir Charles had asked an eminent tragedian of his acquaintance to place the work on the stage and to enact one of the patriot martyrs.  But the tragedian had objected that the other patriot martyrs had parts of equal importance to that proposed for him.  Erskine had indignantly refused to cut these parts down or out, and so the project had fallen through.