ern
resolve that had been taken. But of course they were only proper fruits
of penitence, in Dick for himself, in Lord Eynesford for his kind, and
it could not be expected that they would reproduce themselves in persons
so entirely innocent of actual or vicarious offence as Lady Eynesford
and Eleanor Scaife.

"I think," said Lady Eynesford, "that we may congratulate ourselves on a
very happy way of getting out of the results of Dick's folly."

"I can't think that Dick said anything really serious," remarked
Eleanor.

"So much depends on how people understand things," observed Lady
Eynesford.

It was on the tip of Eleanor's tongue to add, "Or wish to understand
them," but she recollected that she had really no basis for this
malicious insinuation, and made expiation for entertaining it by saying
to Alicia,

"You think she's a nice girl, don't you?"

"Very," said Alicia briefly.

"The question is not what she is, so much as who she is," said Lady
Eynesford.

"I expect it was all Dick's fault," said Alicia hastily.

"Or that man's," suggested the Governor's wife.

A month ago Alicia would have protested strongly. Now she held her
peace: she could not trust herself to defend the Premier. Yet she was
full of sympathy for his daughter, and of indignation at the tone in
which her sister-in-law referred to him. Also she was indignant with
Dick: this conduct of Dick's struck her as an impertinence, and, on
behalf of the Medlands, she resented it. They talked, too, as if it were
a flirtation with a milliner--dangerous enough to be troublesome, yet
too absurd to be really dangerous--discreditable no doubt to Dick,
but--she detected the underlying thought--still more discreditable to
Daisy Medland. The injustice angered her: it would have angered her at
any time; but her anger was forced to lie deeply hidden and secret, and
the suppression made it more intense. Dick's flighty fancy caricatured
the feeling with which she was struggling: the family attitude towards
it faintly foreshadowed the consternation that the lightest hint of her
unbanishable dream would raise. And, worst of all--so it seemed to
her--what must Medland think? He must surely scorn them all--this petty
pride, their microscopic distinctions of rank, their little devices--all
so small, yet all enough to justify the wounding of his daughter's
heart. It gave her a sharp, almost unendurable pang to think that he
might confound her in his sweeping judgment