.'

Her eyes, wherein the dead time hung just above the underlids, lingered,
as with the wish for him to name the name.

She said: 'I am curious to hear how you would treat a case of that sort.
Would you preach to the boys?

'Ten words at most. The right assumption is that both fellows were to
blame. I fancy the proper way would be to appeal to the naughty girls for
their opinion as to how the dispute should be decided.'

'You impose too much on them. And you are not speaking seriously.'

'Pardon me, I am. I should throw myself into the mind of a naughty
girl--supposing none of these at hand--and I should let it be known that
my eyes were shut to proceedings, always provided the weapons were not
such as would cause a shock of alarm in female bosoms.'

'You would at your school allow it to be fought out?'

'Judging by the characters of the boys. If they had heads to understand,
I would try them at their heads. Otherwise they are the better, they come
round quicker to good blood, at their age--I speak of English boys--for a
little hostile exercise of their fists. Well, for one thing, it teaches
them the value of sparring.'

'I must imagine I am not one of the naughty sisterhood,--for I cannot
think I should ever give consent to fighting of any description, unless
for the very best of reasons,' said the countess.

His eyes were at the trick of the quarter-minute's poising. Her lids
fluttered. 'Oh, I don't mean to say I was one of the good,' she added.

At the same time her enlivened memory made her conscious of a warning,
that she might, as any woman might, so talk on of past days as to take,
rather more than was required of the antidote she had come for.

The antidote was excellent; cooling, fortifying; 'quite a chalybeate,'
her aunt would say, and she was thankful. Her heart rose on a quiet wave
of the thanks, and pitched down to a depth of uncounted fathoms. Aminta
was unable to tell herself why.

Mrs. Lawrence Finchley had been announced. On her way to the drawing room
Aminta's brain fell upon a series of dots, that wound along a track to
the point where she accused herself of a repented coquettry--cause of the
burning letters she was doomed to receive and could not stop without
rousing her lion. She dotted backwards; there was no sign that she had
been guilty of any weakness other than the almost--at least, in
design--innocent first move, which had failed to touch Lord Ormont in the
smallest degree. Never