must be held responsible. Her blush died away, but a pair of still
prettier tears glistened in its track. "If you ever hear such a thing
said again you can say it's a horrid lie!" I had brought on a commotion
deeper than any I was prepared for; but it was explained in some degree
by the next words she uttered: "I'm happy to say there's nothing the
matter with any part of my body; not the least little thing!" She spoke
with her habitual complacency, with triumphant assurance; she smiled
again, and I could see that she was already sorry she had shown herself
too disconcerted. She turned it off with a laugh. "I've good eyes, good
teeth, a good digestion and a good temper. I'm sound of wind and limb!"
Nothing could have been more characteristic than her blush and her
tears, nothing less acceptable to her than to be thought not perfect
in every particular. She couldn't submit to the imputation of a flaw. I
expressed my delight in what she told me, assuring her I should always
do battle for her; and as if to rejoin her companions she got up from
her place on my mother's toes. The young men presented their backs
to us; they were leaning on the rail of the cliff. Our incident had
produced a certain awkwardness, and while I was thinking of what next
to say she exclaimed irrelevantly: "Don't you know? He'll be Lord
Considine." At that moment the youth marked for this high destiny turned
round, and she went on, to my mother: "I'll introduce him to you--he's
awfully nice." She beckoned and invited him with her parasol; the
movement struck me as taking everything for granted. I had heard of
Lord Considine and if I had not been able to place Lord Iffield it was
because I didn't know the name of his eldest son. The young man took no
notice of Miss Saunt's appeal; he only stared a moment and then on
her repeating it quietly turned his back. She was an odd creature: she
didn't blush at this; she only said to my mother apologetically, but
with the frankest, sweetest amusement: "You don't mind, do you? He's a
monster of shyness!" It was as if she were sorry for every one--for Lord
Iffield, the victim of a complaint so painful, and for my mother, the
object of a trifling incivility. "I'm sure I don't want him!" said my
mother; but Flora added some remark about the rebuke she would give
him for slighting us. She would clearly never explain anything by any
failure of her own power. There rolled over me while she took leave of
us and floated ba