remembered favourably. I put it as a test of breeding to speak of these things
as plain matter-of-fact. You marry; I wish you to have something by you to
remind you of me. What shall it be? - useful or ornamental. For an ordinary
household the choice is not difficult. But where wealth abounds we are in a
dilemma.«
    »And with persons of decided tastes,« added Lady Busshe. »I am really very
unhappy,« she protested to Clara.
    Sir Willoughby dropped Lætitia: Clara's look of a sedate resolution to
preserve silence on the topic of the nuptial gifts, made a diversion imperative.
    »Your porcelain was exquisitely chosen, and I profess to be a connoisseur,«
he said. »I am poor in old Saxony, as you know: I can match the county in
Sèvres, and my inheritance of China will not easily be matched in the country.«
    »You may consider your Dragon vases a present from young Crossjay,« said De
Craye.
    »How?«
    »Hasn't he abstained from breaking them? the capital boy! Porcelain and a
boy in the house together, is a case of prospective disaster fully equal to
Flitch and a fly.«
    »You should understand that my friend Horace - whose wit is in this instance
founded on another tale of a boy - brought us a magnificent piece of porcelain,
destroyed by the capsizing of his conveyance from the station,« said Sir
Willoughby to Lady Busshe.
    She and Lady Culmer gave out lamentable Ohs, while Miss Eleanor and Miss
Isabel Patterne sketched the incident. Then the lady visitors fixed their eyes
in united sympathy upon Clara: recovering from which, after a contemplation of
marble, Lady Busshe emphasized: »No, you do not love porcelain, it is evident,
Miss Middleton.«
    »I am glad to be assured of it,« said Lady Culmer.
    »Oh! I know that face: I know that look,« Lady Busshe affected to remark
rallyingly: »it is not the first time I have seen it.«
    Sir Willoughby smarted to his marrow. »We will rout these fancies of an
over-scrupulous generosity, my dear Lady Busshe.«
    Her unwonted breach of delicacy in speaking publicly of her present, and the
vulgar persistency of her sticking to the theme, very much perplexed him. And if
he mistook her not, she had just alluded to the demoniacal Constantia Durham. It
might be that he had mistaken her: he was on guard against his terrible
sensitiveness. Nevertheless it was hard to account for