sip know how to build: they always
have some solid foundation, however small. Upwards of twelve years had
run since Louisa went to the wife of the brewer--a period quite long
enough for Mr. George to forget any one in; and she was altogether a
different creature; and, as it was true that Mr. George was a dull one,
she was, after the test she had put him to, justified in hoping that
Mel's progeny might pass unchallenged anywhere out of Lymport. So, with
Mr. George facing her at table, the Countess sat down, determined to eat
and be happy.

A man with the education and tastes of a young country squire is not
likely to know much of the character of women; and of the marvellous
power they have of throwing a veil of oblivion between themselves and
what they don't want to remember, few men know much. Mr. George had
thought, when he saw Mrs. Strike leaning to Evan, and heard she was a
Harrington, that she was rather like the Lymport family; but the
reappearance of Mrs. Strike, the attention of the Duke of Belfield to
her, and the splendid tactics of the Countess, which had extinguished
every thought in the thought of himself, drove Lymport out of his mind.

There were some dinner guests at the table-people of Fallow field,
Beckley, and Bodley. The Countess had the diplomatist on one side, the
Duke on the other. Caroline was under the charge of Sir Franks. The
Countess, almost revelling in her position opposite Mr. George, was
ambitious to lead the conversation, and commenced, smiling at Melville:

'We are to be spared politics to-day? I think politics and cookery do not
assimilate.'

'I'm afraid you won't teach the true Briton to agree with you,' said
Melville, shaking his head over the sums involved by this British
propensity.

'No,' said Seymour. 'Election dinners are a part of the Constitution':
and Andrew laughed: 'They make Radicals pay as well as Tories, so it's
pretty square.'

The topic was taken up, flagged, fell, and was taken up again. And then
Harry Jocelyn said:

'I say, have you worked the flags yet? The great Mel must have his
flags.'

The flags were in the hands of ladies, and ladies would look to the
rosettes, he was told.

Then a lady of the name of Barrington laughed lightly, and said:

'Only, pray, my dear Harry, don't call your uncle the "Great Mel" at the
election.'

'Oh! very well,' quoth Harry: 'why not?'

'You 'll get him laughed at--that 's all.'

'Oh! well, then, I won't,' said Harr