fastened her veil
with due care--"such a thing as that would never do. Who _could_ have
put it into your head to think of it?"

"She does not care for him in the least, then," thought Dorothea; "and
it seems that he has cared for her. I don't think he does now, for he
seemed rather pleased to sketch out that tour which will take her away
from him. I like her, but even if it was base to her, I should still be
glad she was not going to marry John Mortimer."

Justina was in many respects a pleasant woman. She was a good daughter,
she had a very good temper, serene, never peevish; she did not forget
what was due to others, she was reasonable, and, on the whole, just. She
felt what a pity it was that Mr. Mortimer was so unwise. She regretted
this with a sincerity not disturbed by any misgiving. Taking the deepest
interest in herself, as every way worthy and desirable, she did for
herself what she could, and really felt as if this was both a privilege
and a duty. Something like the glow of a satisfied conscience filled her
mind when she reflected that to this end she had worked, and left
nothing undone, just as such a feeling rises in some minds on so
reflecting about efforts made for another person. But with all her
foibles, old people liked her, and her own sex liked her, for she was a
comfortable person to be with; one whose good points attracted regard,
and whose faults were remarkably well concealed.

With that last speech she bowled herself out of the imaginary game of
ninepins, and the next stroke was made by Dorothea.

She went down to the long drawing-room, and found all her guests
departed, excepting John Mortimer, who came up to take leave of her. He
smiled. "I wanted to apologize," he said, taking her hand, "(it was a
great liberty), for the change I made in your table."

"The change, did you say," she answered, oh so softly! "or the changes?"
And then she became suddenly shy, and withdrew her hand, which he was
still holding; and he, drawing himself up to his full height, stood
stock still for a moment as if lost in thought and in surprise.

It was such a very slight hint to him that two ladies had been
concerned, but he took it,--remembered that one of them was the sister
of his host, and also that he had not been allowed to carry out his
_changes_ just as he had devised them. "I asked Emily's leave," he said,
"to take her in."

"Oh, did you?" answered Dorothea, with what seemed involuntary interest,
and