“I don’t see that your ladyship’s supposition much alters the blame. Why, if he is honourably engaged to Cynthia Kirkpatrick, does he not visit her openly at her home in Mr. Gibson’s house? Why does Molly lend herself to clandestine proceedings?”

“One can’t account for everything,” said Lady Harriet, a little impatiently, for reason was going hard against her. “But I choose to have faith in Molly Gibson. I’m sure she’s not done anything very wrong. I’ve a great mind to go and call on her—Mrs. Gibson is confined to her room with this horrid influenza—and take her with me on a round of calls through the little gossiping town—on Mrs. Goodenough, or Badenough, who seems to have been propagating all these stories. But I’ve not time to-day. I’ve to meet papa at three, and it’s three now. Only remember, Miss Phœbe, it’s you and I against the world, in defence of a distressed damsel.”

“Don Quixote and Sancho Panza!” said she to herself as she ran lightly down the Miss Brownings’ old- fashioned staircase.

“Now, I don’t think that’s pretty of you, Phœbe,” said Miss Browning in some displeasure, as soon as she was alone with her sister. “First, you convince me against my will, and make me very unhappy; and I have to do unpleasant things, all because you’ve made me believe that certain statements are true; and, then, you turn round and cry, and say you don’t believe a word of it all, making me out a regular ogre and backbiter. No! it’s of no use. I shan’t listen to you.” So she left Miss Phœbe in tears, and locked herself up in her own room.

Lady Harriet, meanwhile, was riding homewards by her father’s side, apparently listening to all he chose to say, but in reality turning over the probabilities and possibilities that might account for these strange interviews between Molly and Mr. Preston. It was a case of parlez de l’âne, et l’on en roit les oreilles. At a turn in the road, they saw Mr. Preston a little way before them, coming towards them on his good horse, point device, in his riding attire.

The earl, in his threadbare coat, and on his old brown cob, called out cheerfully—

“Aha! here’s Preston. Good-day to you! I was just wanting to ask you about that slip of pasture-land on the Home Farm. John Brickkill wants to plough it up and crop it. It’s not two acres at the best.”

While they were talking over this bit of land, Lady Harriet came to her resolution. As soon as her father had finished, she said—“Mr. Preston, perhaps you will allow me to ask you one or two questions, to relieve my mind, for I am in some little perplexity at present.”

“Certainly; I shall only be too happy to give you any information in my power.” But the moment after he had made this polite speech, he recollected Molly’s speech—that she would refer her case to Lady Harriet. But the letters had been returned, and the affair was now wound up. She had come off conqueror, he the vanquished. Surely she would never have been so ungenerous as to appeal after that!

“There are reports about Miss Gibson and you current among the gossips of Hollingford. Are we to congratulate you on your engagement to that young lady?”

“Ah! by the way, Preston, we ought to have done it before,” interrupted Lord Cumnor, in hasty goodwill. But his daughter said quietly, “Mr. Preston has not yet told us, if the reports are well founded, papa.”

She looked at him with the air of a person expecting an answer, and expecting a truthful answer.

“I am not so fortunate,” replied he, trying to make his horse appear fidgety, without incurring observation.

“Then I may contradict that report?” asked Lady Harriet quickly. “Or is there any reason for believing that in time it may come true? I ask, because such reports, if unfounded, do harm to young ladies.”