declaring the eternity of his sentiments; but he toned them with a
despair Rose did not contemplate, and added also his readiness to
repair, in any way possible, the evil done. He spoke of his birth and
position. Sir Franks, with a gentlemanly delicacy natural to all lovers
of a smooth world, begged him to see the main and the insurmountable
objection. Birth was to be desired, of course, and position, and so
forth: but without money how can two young people marry? Evan's heart
melted at this generous way of putting it. He said he saw it, he had no
hope: he would go and be forgotten: and begged that for any annoyance
his visit might have caused Sir Franks and Lady Jocelyn, they would
pardon him. Sir Franks shook him by the hand, and the interview ended
in a dialogue on the condition of the knees of Black Lymport, and on
horseflesh in Portugal and Spain.

Following Evan, Rose went to her father and gave him a good hour's
excitement, after which the worthy gentleman hurried for consolation
to Lady Jocelyn, whom he found reading a book of French memoirs, in her
usual attitude, with her feet stretched out and her head thrown back, as
in a distant survey of the lively people screening her from a troubled
world. Her ladyship read him a piquant story, and Sir Franks capped it
with another from memory; whereupon her ladyship held him wrong in one
turn of the story, and Sir Franks rose to get the volume to verify, and
while he was turning over the leaves, Lady Jocelyn told him incidentally
of old Tom Cogglesby's visit and proposal. Sir Franks found the passage,
and that her ladyship was right, which it did not move her countenance
to hear.

'Ah!' said he, finding it no use to pretend there was no bother in the
world, 'here's a pretty pickle! Rose says she will have that fellow.'

'Hum!' replied her ladyship. 'And if she keeps her mind a couple of
years, it will be a wonder.'

'Very bad for her this sort of thing--talked about,' muttered Sir
Franks. 'Ferdinand was just the man.'

'Well, yes; I suppose it's her mistake to think brains an absolute
requisite,' said Lady Jocelyn, opening her book again, and scanning down
a column.

Sir Franks, being imitative, adopted a similar refuge, and the talk
between them was varied by quotations and choice bits from the authors
they had recourse to. Both leaned back in their chairs, and spoke with
their eyes on their books.

'Julia's going to write to her mother,' said he.

'Very fili