old “Bath” story.  I thought I should have died.  I could not but fancy the Admiral suspected.  Was it not natural?  And what do you think I had the audacity to do?  I asked him coolly, whether the Mr. Harrington he mentioned was not the son of Sir Abraham Harrington, of Torquay,—­the gentleman who lost his yacht in the Lisbon waters last year?  I brought it on myself.  ‘Gentleman, ma’am,—­ma’am!’ says the horrid old creature, laughing, ‘gentleman! he’s a ——­ I cannot speak it:  I choke!’ And then he began praising Papa.  Diacho! what I suffered.  But, you know, I can keep my countenance, if I perish.  I am a Harrington as much as any of us!’

And the Countess looked superb in the pride with which she said she was what she would have given her hand not to be.  But few feelings are single on this globe, and junction of sentiments need not imply unity in our yeasty compositions.

‘After it was over—­my supplice,’ continued the Countess, ’I was questioned by all the ladies—­I mean our ladies—­not your English.  They wanted to know how I could be so civil to that intolerable man.  I gained a deal of credit, my dears.  I laid it all on—­Diplomacy.’  The Countess laughed bitterly.  ’Diplomacy bears the burden of it all.  I pretended that Combleman could be useful to Silva!  Oh! what hypocrites we all are, mio Deus!’

The ladies listening could not gainsay this favourite claim of universal brotherhood among the select who wear masks instead of faces.

With regard to Evan, the Countess had far outstripped her sisters in her views.  A gentleman she had discovered must have one of two things—­a title or money.  He might have all the breeding in the world; he might be as good as an angel; but without a title or money he was under eclipse almost total.  On a gentleman the sun must shine.  Now, Evan had no title, no money.  The clouds were thick above the youth.  To gain a title he would have to scale aged mountains.  There was one break in his firmament through which the radiant luminary might be assisted to cast its beams on him still young.  That divine portal was matrimony.  If he could but make a rich marriage he would blaze transfigured; all would be well!  And why should not Evan marry an heiress, as well as another?

‘I know a young creature who would exactly suit him,’ said the Countess.  ’She is related to the embassy, and is in Lisbon now.  A charming child—­just sixteen!  Dios! how the men rave about her! and she isn’t a beauty,—­there’s the wonder; and she is a little too gauche too English in her habits and ways of thinking; likes to be admired, of course, but doesn’t know yet how to set about getting it.  She rather scandalizes our ladies, but when you know her!—­She will have, they say, a hundred ’thousand pounds in her own right!  Rose Jocelyn, the daughter of Sir Franks, and that eccentric Lady Jocelyn.  She is with her uncle, Melville, the celebrated diplomate though, to tell you the truth, we turn him round our fingers, and spin him as the boys used to do the cockchafers.  I cannot forget our old Fallow field school-life, you see, my dears.  Well, Rose Jocelyn would just suit Evan.  She is just of an age to receive an impression.  And I would take care she did.  Instance me a case where I have failed?