'Did not Frampton know that that related to me?' said Louis, sotto
voce, to his aunt. 'Did he not trust that he was reducing me from a
sea anemone to a lump of quaking jelly?'

So far from this consummation, Lord Fitzjocelyn looked as triumphant
as Don Quixote liberating Gines de Pasamonte. He and his father
might have sat for illustrations of


'Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care,'


as they occupied the two ends of the dinner-table; the Earl
concealing anxiety and vexation, under more than ordinary punctilious
politeness; the Viscount doing his share of the honours with easy,
winning grace and attention, and rattling on in an under-tone of
lively conversation with Aunt Catharine. Mary was silently amazed at
her encouraging him; but perhaps she could not help spoiling him the
more, because there was a storm impending. At least, as soon as she
was in the drawing-room, she became restless and nervous, and said
that she wished his father could see that speaking sternly to him
never did any good; besides, it was mere inconsiderateness, the
excess of chivalrous compassion.

Mrs. Ponsonby said she thought young men's ardour more apt to be
against than for the poacher.

'I must confess,' said Aunt Catherine, with all the reluctance of a