sant, certainly, but not the aim of his
aspirations from afar at St. Satisfax's. His _amour propre_ was a
little wounded by that spook, too. Nothing keeps it up to the mark
better than a belief in one's stability--in love-matters, especially.

He was not quite sure of the exact moment the spook intruded his
opinion, so _we_ can't be expected to know. Perhaps about the time
Miss Wilson came in (just as he was showing how carefully he had
listened to Joachim) and said could _he_ play those? She wished _she_
could. She was thrown off her guard by the finished execution, and for
the moment quite forgot Cattley's and the classitudes. Sally instantly
perceived her opening. She would enjoy catching Tishy out in any sort
of way. So she said: "Mr. Bradshaw will show you how, Tishy dear; of
course he will. Only, not now, because if we don't begin, we shan't
have time for the long quartet." If you say this sort of thing about
strangers in Society, you really ought to give them a chance. So
thought Laetitia to herself, and resolved to blow Sally up at the first
opportunity.

As for that culprit, she completed her work, from her own position of
perfect security, with complacency at least. And she felt at the end
of her evening (which we needn't dwell on, as it was all crotchets,
minims, and F sharps and G flats) that her entrenchments had become
spontaneously stronger without exertion on her part. For there were
Tishy and Mr. Bradshaw, between whom Sally had certainly understood
there was a great gulf fixed, sitting on the very same sofa and talking
about a Stradivarius. She concluded that, broadly speaking, Debrett's
bark is worse than his bite, and that he is, at heart, a very
accommodating character.

"I hope you saw Tishy, mamma dear." So spoke Sally to her mother,
after the musicians first, and then Fenwick, had dispersed their
several ways. Mrs. Nightingale seemed very _distraite_ and
preoccupied.

"Saw Tishy what, kitten?"

"Tishy and Mr. Bradshaw on that sofa."

"No, darling. Oh yes, I did. What about them?"

"After all that rumpus about shop-boys!" But her mother's attention
is not easy to engage this evening, somehow. Her mind seems somewhere
else altogether. But from where it is, it sees the vulgar child very
plainly indeed, as she puts up her face to be kissed with all its
animation on it. She kisses it, animation and all, caressing the rich
black hair with a hand that seems thoughtful. A hand can. Then she
mak