e against which she need not rouse
herself to the fight. Aunt Emmeline had, in truth, intended to insist
on that difference--and another; but her courage had failed her.

"Yes, indeed. He is a man very much thought of just now in public
life, and Augusta's mind is naturally much occupied. He writes all
those letters in The Times about supply and demand."

"Does he, aunt?" Ayala did feel that if Augusta's mind was entirely
occupied with supply and demand she ought not to be made to go
upstairs to fetch a scrap-book. But she had her doubts about
Augusta's mind. Nevertheless, if the forthcoming husband were true,
that might be a reason. "If anybody had told me before I wouldn't
have asked her," she said.

Then Lady Tringle explained that it had been thought better not to
say anything heretofore as to the coming matrimonial hilarities
because of the sadness which had fallen upon the Dormer family. Ayala
accepted this as an excuse, and nothing further was said as to the
iniquity of her request to her cousin. But there was a general
feeling among the women that Ayala, in lieu of gratitude, had
exhibited an intention of rebelling.

On the next day Mr. Traffick arrived, whose coming had probably
made it necessary that the news should be told. Ayala was never so
surprised in her life as when she saw him. She had never yet had a
lover of her own, had never dreamed of a lover, but she had her own
idea as to what a lover ought to be. She had thought that Isadore
Hamel would be a very nice lover--for her sister. Hamel was young,
handsome, with a great deal to say on such a general subject as art,
but too bashful to talk easily to the girl he admired. Ayala had
thought that all that was just as it should be. She was altogether
resolved that Hamel and her sister should be lovers, and was
determined to be devoted to her future brother-in-law. But the
Honourable Septimus Traffick! It was a question to her whether her
Uncle Tringle would not have been better as a lover.

And yet there was nothing amiss about Mr. Traffick. He was very much
like an ordinary hard-working member of the House of Commons, over
perhaps rather than under forty years of age. He was somewhat bald,
somewhat grey, somewhat fat, and had lost that look of rosy plumpness
which is seldom, I fear, compatible with hard work and late hours. He
was not particularly ugly, nor was he absurd in appearance. But he
looked to be a disciple of business, not of pleasure, nor