“Oh, lord, yes!” He met her astonished look with a smile of pure derision. “Come, come, ma’am! Where have your wits gone begging? Celia was an heiress! Consider, too, the scandal that would have attended a rupture of the engagement! People must have talked,and nothing could have been more obnoxious to a Wendover or a Morval! The affair had to be hushed up, and you must own that a very neat thing they made of it, between the four of them!”

“Four of them?”

“That’s it: your father, Celia’s father, my father, and Rowland,” he explained.

“Respectability!” she ejaculated bitterly. “Oh, how much I have detested that—that god of my father’s idolatry! Did your father worship at the same altar?”

“No, what he worshipped was good ton. I wasn’t good ton at all, so he was glad of the chance to be rid of me, and I can’t say I blame him. I was very expensive, you know.”

“From what I have heard, your brother was even more expensive!” she said. “I wonder he didn’t get rid of him!”

He smiled. “Ah, but Humphrey was his heir! Besides, his debts were those of honour: quite unexceptionable, particularly when contracted in clubs of high fashion! He was used to move in the first circles, too, which I—er—didn’t!”

“No doubt he would have taken no exception to his son’s ruinous career!”

“Oh, that doesn’t follow at all! Being badly under the hatches himself, he would probably have taken the most violent exception to it. However, he died before Stacy came of age, so we shall never know. Judging by my own experience, Stacy might have got himself into Dun territory at Oxford, but he could scarcely have gone to pigs-and-whistles—unless, of course, he was a regular out-and-outer, which, from what you’ve told me, he don’t seem to be.”

“Were you up at Oxford?” she asked curiously.

“No, I was down from Oxford—sent down!” he replied affably.

She choked, but managed to say, after a brief struggle: “What—whatever may have been your youthful f-follies, sir, I must believe that you have outgrown them, and—and I cannot think that you would wish your nephew—the head of your house!—to—to retrieve his fortunes by seducing a girl—oh, a child!—into a clandestine marriage!”

“But if the poor fellow is rolled-up what else can he do?” he asked.

She said through gritted teeth: “For all I care, he may do anything he chooses, except marry my niece! Surely—surely you must perceive how—how wrong that would be!”

“I must say, it seems mutton-headed to me,” he agreed. “He’d do better to fix his interest with a girl who is already in possession of her fortune.”

“Good God, is that all you have to say?” she cried.

“Well, what do you expect me to say?” he asked.

“Say! I—I expect you to do something!”

“Do what?”

“Put an end to this affair!”

“How?”

“Speak to your nephew—tell him—oh, I don’t know! You must be able to think of something!”

“Well, I’m not. Besides, why should I?”

“Because it is your duty! Because he is your nephew!”

“You’ll have to think of some better reasons than those. I haven’t any duty to Stacy, and I don’t suppose I should do it if I had.”

“Mr Calverleigh, you cannot wish your nephew to sink himself so utterly below reproach!”

“Wish? I haven’t any feelings in the matter at all. In fact, I don’t care a straw what he does. So if you are looking to me to rake him down, don’t!”

“Oh, you are impossible!” she cried, starting up.

“I daresay, but I’m damned if I’ll preach morality to oblige you! A nice cake I should make of myself! I like the way your eyes sparkle when you’re angry.”

They positively flashed at this. One fulminating glance she cast at him before turning sharply away, and walking out of the room.

The Leavenings were forgotten; it was not until she had reached Laura Place that she remembered that the note she had written had been left on the writing-table. She could only hope that it would be found, and delivered to Mrs Leavening. By this time her seething anger had abated a little, and she was able to review her encounter with Mr Miles Calverleigh in a more moderate spirit. Slackening her pace, she walked on, into Great Pulteney Street, so deeply preoccupied that she neither acknowledged, nor even saw, the salutation directed towards her from the other side of the street by her clerical admirer, Canon Pinfold: an aberration which caused the Very Reverend gentleman to subject his conscience to a severe search, in an effort to discover in what way he could have offended her.

It was not long before Miss Abigail Wendover, no self-deceiver, realized that she was strangely attracted to the abominable Mr Miles Calverleigh. Out of his own careless mouth he had convicted himself of being a person totally unworthy of respect, but when she recalled the things he had said to her a most, reprehensible bubble of laughter rose within her. A very little reflection, however, was enough to bring a blush to her cheeks. It was no laughing matter, and strangely depraved she must be to have felt the smallest inclination to laugh at the cool recital of his misdeeds. She knew that he had been expelled from Eton; he had told her in the most unconcerned way, that he had been sent down from Oxford; and it now appeared that he had crowned his iniquities by attempting to elope with a girl out of the schoolroom. Curiously enough she was less shocked by this escapade than by the rest: he could hardly, she supposed, have been much older himself, and it did seem that he had been desperately in love. It was bad, of course, but what was worse was his unblushing avowal of his sins. He had not mentioned them in a boastful spirit, but as though they had been commonplaces, which he regarded with amusement—even with ribaldry, she thought, once more obliged to suppress a reminiscent smile. When she remembered his callous refusal to intervene to save Fanny from his nephew’s designs, however, she had no desire to laugh: she felt it to be unpardonable. He disclaimed any affection for Stacy; and, although he was certainly not in love with the memory of Celia, it was surely reasonable to suppose that enough tenderness remained with him to make him not wholly indifferent to her daughter’s fate.

Recalling, exactly, the closing stage of her interview with him, contempt and indignation rose in Abby’s breast, and she reached Sydney Place in a very uncomfortable state of mind: uncertain whether she most loathed Mr Miles Calverleigh, for his detestable cynicism, or herself, for succumbing to his wicked charm. Quite carried away, she uttered, aloud: “No better than a wet-goose!” a savage self-apostrophe which considerably discomposed Mitton, opening the door at that inopportune moment.

Learning from him that Miss Butterbank was with her sister, she retired to her own room; and by the time she emerged from it she had in some measure recovered her accustomed equanimity, and had decided (on undefined grounds) that it would be wisest not to yield to her first impulse, which had been to pour the story of the morning’s encounter into Selina’s ears. She said nothing about it, merely assuring Selina that she had left a note at York House, to be delivered to Mrs Leavening upon her arrival.

After all, one of the servants was bound to find it, and would no doubt give it to Mrs Leavening.

Fanny, returning from her expedition in time for dinner, seemed also to have recovered her equanimity: a circumstance which would have afforded Abby gratification had Fanny not artlessly disclosed that Miss Julia Weaverham, included in the equestrian party, had told her all about the very civil letter her mama had received from Mr Stacy Calverleigh, heralding his return to Bath at the end of the week. “And when you meet him you will see for yourself—you’ll understand why—won’t she, Aunt Selina?”

Thrown into disorder by the glowing, appealing look cast towards her, Selina lost herself in a tangle of disjointed phrases, from which she was rescued by her sister, who said calmly that she would be happy to make Mr Calverleigh’s acquaintance, and added that Selina must not forget to send him a card of invitation to her evening-party. This, while it made Fanny bestow on her a shy, grateful smile which made her feel that she was a traitress, had the desired effect of luring Selina into an exhaustive discussion of the persons to be invited to meet the Leavenings, and of the arrangements for their entertainment which it would be necessary to make. Nothing more was said about Stacy Calverleigh, but Abby went to bed, later, in a mood of unusual depression, and spent a large part of the night mulling over a problem which grew greater and more insoluble as the minutes ticked past.

She awoke not much refreshed, but, as she sat before her dressing-table, it occurred to her that there was one person who might be able to offer her valuable advice. Mrs Grayshott, a woman of superior sense, not only held Fanny in affection but was the mother of a pretty daughter, and might be supposed to know better than a mere spinster-aunt how best to handle a girl in the throes of her first love-affair. At all events, it could do no harm to consult her, for Abby guessed her to be a safe repository for confidences, and felt herself to be in need of such a repository.

So she presently told Fanny that she would escort her to Queen’s Square, in Mrs Grimston’s stead, that morning, and occupy herself, while Fanny wrestled with Italian grammar under the aegis of Miss Timble, with some necessary shopping. After which, she said, she would pay Mrs Grayshott a visit, and remain with her until Fanny and Miss Lavinia Grayshott were released from the Italian class, and could, with perfect propriety, escort each other to Edgar Buildings.

Fanny, greeting this suggestion with acclaim, said: “Oh, famous! Then I can purchase a new pair of silk stockings, in Milsom Street! I wanted to do so when you were away, but my aunt was feeling too poorly to go shopping, and nothing will prevail upon me ever again to go with Nurse! Well, you know what she is, Abby! If she doesn’t say that the very thing one wants isn’t suitable—as though one were still in the schoolroom!—she sinks one with embarrassment by saying that it is by far too dear, and she knows where it can be bought at half the price!”

Edgar Buildings, in George Street, were situated just within the fashionable part of the town, which extended northward from the top of Milsom Street to the exclusive heights of Upper Camden Place. Failing to discover an eligible lodging for his sister in the equally exclusive district which lay across the bridge and included Laura Place, Great Pultney Street, and Sydney Place, Mr Leonard Balking would have chosen, had he consulted only his own pleasure, to have set Mrs Grayshott up in style there, even hiring an imposing house for her accommodation; but he had, besides his deep affection for her, a great deal of commonsense, and he realized that a large house would be a burden to her, and the long climb up to Camden Place not at all the thing for an invalid. So he had established her in Edgar Buildings, whence she could visit all the best shops, and even, without exhaustion, walk to the Pump Room, or to the Private Bath, in Stall Street. After condemning out of hand a set of apartments which he stigmatized as poky, he was fortunate enough to discover a first-floor suite which he thought tolerable, and everyone else described as handsome. Nearly all the lodgings in Bath were let in suites, and in the best part of the town these generally consisted of some four or five rooms, persons who wished for only two rooms being obliged either to look for them in an unfashionable quarter, or to endure all the disadvantages of one of Bath’s numerous boarding-houses.

Mrs Grayshott’s lodging was one of the most commodious sets of rooms to be had, providing her with bedrooms for herself, her daughter, her maid, and any chance visitor; and it had, besides a spacious drawing-room, a small dining-parlour. Mrs Grayshott, urgently assuring her brother that she and Lavinia could be perfectly comfortable in humbler lodgings, was silenced by his saying simply: “You hurt me very much when you talk in that strain, my dear. You and your children are all the family I have, and surely I may be allowed to stand godfather to you?”

So Mrs Grayshott, whose circumstances were straitened, allowed herself to be installed in lodgings which were the envy of many of her acquaintances; and, since she made no secret of the fact that she owed her apparent affluence to the generosity of her brother, only such ill-natured persons as Mrs Ruscombe ever said that it seemed an odd thing that an impecunious widow should be able to live as high as a coach-horse.