"--With our antiquated notions, questions of domestic management might arise, and with the best will in the world to be harmonious!"
"--So, dear Clara, consider it settled."
"--From time to time gladly shall we be your guests."
"--Your guests, dear, not censorious critics."
"And you think me such an Egoist!--dear ladies! The suggestion of so cruel a piece of selfishness wounds me. I would not have had you leave the Hall. I like your society; I respect you. My complaint, if I had one, would be, that you do not sufficiently assert yourselves. I could have wished you to be here for an example to me. I would not have allowed you to go. What can he think of me! Did Willoughby speak of it this morning?"
It was hard to distinguish which was the completer dupe of these two echoes of one another in worship of a family idol.
"Willoughby," Miss Eleanor presented herself to be stamped with the title hanging ready for the first that should open her lips, "our Willoughby is observant--he is ever generous--and he is not less forethoughtful. His arrangement is for our good on all sides."
"An index is enough," said Miss Isabel, appearing in her turn the monster dupe.
"You will not have to leave, dear ladies. Were I mistress here I should oppose it."
"Willoughby blames himself for not reassuring you before."
"Indeed we blame ourselves for not undertaking to go."
"Did he speak of it first this morning?" said Clara; but she could draw no reply to that from them. They resumed the duet, and she resigned herself to have her cars boxed with nonsense.
"So, it is understood?" said Miss Eleanor.
"I see your kindness, ladies."
"And I am to be Aunt Eleanor again?"
"And I Aunt Isabel?"
Clara could have wrung her hands at the impediment which prohibited her delicacy from telling them why she could not name them so as she had done in the earlier days of Willoughby's courtship. She kissed them warmly, ashamed of kissing, though the warmth was real.
They retired with a flow of excuses to Dr. Middleton for disturbing him. He stood at the door to bow them out, and holding the door for Clara, to wind up the procession, discovered her at a far corner of the room.
He was debating upon the advisability of leaving her there, when Vernon Whitford crossed the hall from the laboratory door, a mirror of himself in his companion air of discomposure.
That was not important, so long as Vernon was a check on Clara; but the moment Clara, thus baffled, moved to quit the library, Dr.
Middleton felt the horror of having an uncomfortable face opposite.
"No botheration, I hope? It's the worst thing possible to work on.
Where have you been? I suspect your weak point is not to arm yourself in triple brass against bother and worry, and no good work can you do unless you do. You have come out of that laboratory."
"I have, sir.--Can I get you any book?" Vernon said to Clara.
She thanked him, promising to depart immediately.
"Now you are at the section of Italian literature, my love," said Dr Middleton. "Well, Mr. Whitford, the laboratory--ah!--where the amount of labour done within the space of a year would not stretch an electric current between this Hall and the railway station: say, four miles, which I presume the distance to be.
