e talking. If Mr.
Torrens never recovers his eyesight he has only us to thank for it." She
paused a moment, and then added:--"And how I shall look that girl in the
face I don't know!"

"What girl?"

"Oh, didn't you see? The girl he's got that engaged ring on his finger
about. You didn't see? You never _do_ see, mamma dear!"

"I didn't notice any particular ring, dear." Her ladyship may have felt
a relief about something, to judge by her manner. "Has Irene said
anything to you?" she asked.

Gwen considered a little. "Irene talks a good deal about a Miss Gertrude
Abercrombie, a cousin. But she has never _said_ anything."

"Oh!--it's Miss Gertrude Abercrombie?..."

"_I_ know nothing about it. I was only guessing. She may be Miss
Gertrude Anybody. Whoever she is, it's the same thing. _Think_ what
she's lost!"

"She has, indeed, my dear," says the elder lady, who is not going to
give up this acceptable Miss Gertrude Anybody, even at the risk of
talking some nonsense about her. "And we must all feel for the cruelty
of her position. But if she is--as I have no doubt she is--truly
attached to Mr. Torrens, she will find her consolation in the thought
that it is given to her to ... to...." But the Countess was not
rhetorician enough to know that choice words should be kept for
perorations. She had quite taken the edge off her best arrow-head. She
could not wind up "to be a consolation to her husband" with any
convincingness. So when Gwen interrupted her with:--"I see what you
mean, but it's nonsense," she fell back upon the strong entrenchment of
seniors, who know the Will of God. They really do, don't you know? "At
least," she said, "this Miss Abercrombie must admit that no blame can
fairly be laid at our door for what was so manifestly ordained by the
Almighty. Sir Hamilton Torrens himself was the first to exonerate your
father. His own keeper is instructed to shoot all dogs except poodles."

"It was not the Will of God at all...."

"My dear!--how _can_ you know that?"

"Well--not more than everything else is! It was old Stephen's not
hitting his mark. And he would have killed Achilles, then. Oh dear, how
I do sometimes wish God could be kept out of it!... No, mamma, it's no
use looking shocked. Whatever makes out that it was not our fault is
wrong, and Sir Hamilton Torrens didn't mean that when he said it."

"My dear, it is his own son."

"Very well, then, all the more! Oh, you know what I mean.... No, mamma,"