. She is not a Précieuse. She has made a capital selection of her
vocabulary from Johnson, and does not work it badly, if we may judge by Harry
and Melville. Euphuism in woman is the popular ideal of a Duchess. She has it by
nature, or she has studied it: and if so, you must respect her abilities.«
    »Yes - Harry!« said Rose, who was angry at a loss of influence over her
rough brother, »any one could manage Harry! and Uncle Mel's a goose. You should
see what a female euphuist Dorry is getting. She says in the Countess's hearing:
Rose! I should in verity wish to play, if it were pleasing to my sweet cousin? I
'm ready to die with laughing. I don't do it, Mama.«
    The Countess, thus being discussed, was closeted with old Mrs. Bonner: not
idle. Like Hannibal in Italy, she had crossed her Alps in attaining Beckley
Court, and here in the enemy's country the wary general found herself under the
necessity of throwing up entrenchments to fly to in case of defeat. Sir Abraham
Harrington of Torquay, who had helped her to cross the Alps, became a formidable
barrier against her return.
    Meantime Evan was riding over to Fallowfield, and as he rode under black
visions between the hedgeways crowned with their hop-garlands, a fragrance of
roses saluted his nostril, and he called to mind the red and the white the
peerless representative of the two had given him, and which he had thrust
sullenly in his breast-pocket: and he drew them out to look at them
reproachfully and sigh farewell to all the roses of life, when in company with
them he found in his hand the forgotten letter delivered to him on the
cricket-field the day of the memorable match. He smelt at the roses, and turned
the letter this way and that. His name was correctly worded on the outside. With
an odd reluctance to open it, he kept trifling over the flowers, and then broke
the broad seal, and these are the words that met his eyes: -
 
        »Mr. Evan Harrington.
            You have made up your mind to be a tailor, instead of a Tomnoddy.
        You 're right. Not too many men in the world - plenty of nincompoops.
            Don't be made a weathercock of by a parcel of women. I want to find
        a man worth something. If you go on with it, you shall end by riding in
        your carriage, and cutting it as
