to abuse him till after the third time round
the garden."

"I beg, then, that there may be only two turns," said Clarissa.
But she did not know how to stop, or to get rid of her abominable
companion.

"If I mustn't abuse him after three turns, he must be a favourite,"
said the persevering Poojean. "I suppose he is a favourite.
By-the-bye, what a lovely girl that is with whom your favourite
was,--shall I say flirting?"

"That lady is my cousin, Mr. Poojean."

"I didn't say that she was flirting, mind. I wouldn't hint such a
thing of any young lady, let her be anybody's cousin. Young ladies
never flirt. But young men do sometimes;--don't they? After all, it
is the best fun going;--isn't it?"

"I don't know," said Clarissa. By this time they had got round to the
steps leading from the garden to the house. "I think I'll go in, Mr.
Poojean." She did go in, and Mr. Poojean was left looking at the moon
all alone, as though he had separated himself from all mirth and
society for that melancholy but pleasing occupation. He stood there
gazing upwards with his thumbs beneath his waistcoat. "Grand,--is it
not?" he said to the first couple that passed him.

"Awfully grand, and beautifully soft, and all the rest of it," said
Ralph, as he went on with Mary Bonner by his side.

"That fellow has got no touch of poetry in him!" said Poojean to
himself. In the meantime Clarissa, pausing a moment as she entered
through the open window, heard Ralph's cheery voice. How well she
knew its tones! And she still paused, with ears erect, striving to
catch some word from her cousin's mouth. But Mary's words, if they
were words spoken by her, were too low and soft to be caught.
"Oh,--if she should turn out to be sly!" Clarissa said to herself.
Was it true that Ralph had been flirting with her,--as that odious
man had said? And why, why, why had Ralph not come to her, if he
really loved her, as he had twice told her that he did? Of course
she had not thrown herself into his arms when old Mrs. Brownlow made
that foolish fuss. But still he might have come to her. He might
have waited for her in the garden. He might have saved her from the
"odious vulgarity" of that "abominable old wretch." For in such
language did Clarissa describe to herself the exertions to amuse her
which had been made by her late companion. But had the Sydney Smith
of the day been talking to her, he would have been dull, or the Count
D'Orsay of the day, he would have bee