“His kindness!” This was the sort of reply to make the lady implacable.  She seldom read others shrewdly, and could not know, that near her, Emilia thought of Wilfrid in a way that made the vault of her brain seem to echo with jarred chords.  “His kindness!  What a picture is the ‘grateful girl!’ I have seen rows of white-capped charity children giving a bob and a sniffle as the parson went down the ranks promising buns.  Well! his kindness!  You are right in appreciating as much as you can see.  I’ll tell you why I like him;—­because he is a gentleman.  And you haven’t got an idea how rare that animal is.  Dear me!  Should I be plainer to you if I called him a Christian gentleman?  It’s the cant of a detestable school, my child.  It means just this—­but why should I disturb your future faith in it?  The professors mainly profess to be ’a comfort to young women,’ and I suppose you will meet your comfort, and worship them with the ‘growing mind;’ and I must confess that they bait it rather cunningly; nothing else would bite.  They catch almost all the raw boys who have anything in them.  But for me, Merthyr himself would have been caught long ago.  There’s no absolute harm in them, only that they’re a sentimental compromise.  I deny their honesty; and if it’s flatly proved, I deny their intelligence.  Well! this you can’t understand.”

“I have not understood you at all,” said Emilia.

“No?  It’s the tongue that’s the natural traitor to a woman, and takes longer runs with every added year.  I suppose you know that Mr. Powys wishes to send you to Italy?”

“I do,” said Emilia.

“When are you going?”

“I am not going?”

“Why?”

Emilia’s bosom rose.  She cried “Dear lady!” on the fall of it, and was scarce audible—­adding, “Do you love Wilfrid?”

“Well, you have brought me to the point quickly,” Lady Charlotte remarked.  “I don’t commonly beat the bush long myself.  Love him!  You might as well ask me my age.  The indiscretion would be equal, and the result the same.  Love!  I have a proper fear of the word.  When two play at love they spoil the game.  It’s enough that he says he loves me.”

Emilia looked relieved.  “Poor lady!” she sighed.

“Poor!” Lady Charlotte echoed, with curious eyes fixed on the puzzle beside her.

“Tell me you will not believe him,” Emilia continued.  “He is mine; I shall never give him up.  It is useless for you or any one else to love him.  I know what love is now.  Stop while you can.  I can be sorry for you, but I will not let him go from me.  He is my lover.”

Emilia closed her lips abruptly.  She produced more effect than was visible.  Lady Charlotte drew out a letter, saying, “Perhaps this will satisfy you.”

“Nothing!” cried Emilia, jumping to her feet.

“Read it—­read it; and, for heaven’s sake, ma fille sauvage, don’t think I’m here to fight for the man!  He is not Orpheus; and our modern education teaches us that it’s we who are to be run after.  Will you read it?”