not a soul saw it but that wretched Frenchman!  He came to me:  “Madame,” he said, “is a question permitted?” I replied, “As-many as you please, M. le Comte, but no answers promised.”  He said:  “May I ask if the Courier has yet come in?”—­“Nay, M. le Comte,” I replied, “this is diplomacy.  Inquire of me, or better, give me an opinion on the new glace silk from Paris.”—­“Madame,” said he, bowing, “I hope Paris may send me aught so good, or that I shall grace half so well.”  I smiled, “You shall not be single in your hopes, M. le Comte.  The gift would be base that you did not embellish.”  He lifted his hands, French-fashion:  “Madame, it is that I have received the gift.”—­“Indeed!  M. le Comte.”—­“Even now from the Count de Saldar, your husband.”  I looked most innocently, “From my husband, M. le Comte?”—­“From him, Madame.  A portrait.  An Ambassador without his coat!  The portrait was a finished performance.”  I said:  “And may one beg the permission to inspect it?”—­“Mais,” said he, laughing:  “were it you alone, it would be a privilege to me.”  I had to check him.  “Believe me, M. le Comte, that when I look upon it, my praise of the artist will be extinguished by my pity for the subject.”  He should have stopped there; but you cannot have the last word with a Frenchman—­not even a woman.  Fortunately the Queen just then made her entry into the saloon, and his mot on the charity of our sex was lost.  We bowed mutually, and were separated.’ (The Countess employed her handkerchief.) ’Yes, dear Van! that is how you should behave.  Imply things.  With dearest Mama, of course, you are the dutiful son.  Alas! you must stand for son and daughters.  Mama has so much sense!  She will understand how sadly we are placed.  But in a week I will come to her for a day, and bring you back.’

So much his sister Louisa.  His sister Harriet offered him her house for a home in London, thence to project his new career.  His sister Caroline sought a word with him in private, but only to weep bitterly in his arms, and utter a faint moan of regret at marriages in general.  He loved this beautiful creature the best of his three sisters (partly, it may be, because he despised her superior officer), and tried with a few smothered words to induce her to accompany him:  but she only shook her fair locks and moaned afresh.  Mr. Andrew, in the farewell squeeze of the hand at the street-door, asked him if he wanted anything.  He negatived the requirement of anything whatever, with an air of careless decision, though he was aware that his purse barely contained more than would take him the distance, but the instincts of this amateur gentleman were very fine and sensitive on questions of money.  His family had never known him beg for a shilling, or admit his necessity for a penny:  nor could he be made to accept money unless it was thrust into his pocket.  Somehow his sisters had forgotten this peculiarity of his.  Harriet only remembered it when too late.

‘But I dare say Andrew has supplied him,’ she said.