“But I suppose she’s not past all hope. The older one is the more one ought to try. But, of course, I’m only joking about her. Would Miss Todd come if you were to ask her?”

“Perhaps she would, but I don’t think she’d be comfortable; or if she were, she’d make the others uncomfortable. She always does exactly what she pleases.”

“That’s just why I think I should like her. I wish I dared to do what I pleased! We all of us are such cowards. Only that I don’t dare, I’d go off to Australia and marry a sheep farmer.”

“You would not like him when you’d got him;—you’d find him very rough.”

“I shouldn’t mind a bit about his being rough. I’d marry a shoe-black to-morrow if I thought I could make him happy, and he could make me happy.”

“But it wouldn’t make you happy.”

“Ah! that’s just what we don’t know. I shan’t marry a shoe-black, because I don’t dare. So you think I’d better not ask Miss Todd. Perhaps she wouldn’t get on well with Mr Maguire.”

“I had them both together once, my dear, and she made herself quite unbearable. You’ve no idea what kind of things she can say.”

“I should have thought Mr Maguire would have given her as good as she brought,” said Miss Mackenzie.

“So he did; and then Miss Todd got up and left him, saying out loud, before all the company, that it was not fair for him to come and preach sermons in such a place as that. I don’t think they have ever met since.”

All this made Miss Mackenzie very thoughtful. She had thrown herself into the society of the saints, and now there seemed to be no escape for her; she could not be wicked even if she wished it. Having got into her convent, and, as it were, taken the vows of her order, she could not escape from it.

“That Mr Rubb that I told you of is coming down here,” she said, still speaking to Miss Baker of her party.

“Oh, dear! will he be here when you have your friends here?”

“That’s what I intended; but I don’t think I shall ask anybody at all. It is so stupid always seeing the same people.”

“Mr Rubb is—is—is—?”

“Yes; Mr Rubb is a partner in my brother’s house, and sells oilcloth, and things of that sort, and is not by any means aristocratic. I know what you mean.”

“Don’t be angry with me, my dear.”

“Angry! I am not a bit angry. Why should I be angry? A man who keeps a shop is not, I suppose, a gentleman. But then, you know, I don’t care about gentlemen,—about any gentleman, or any gentlemen.”

Miss Baker sighed, and then the conversation dropped. She had always cared about gentlemen,—and once in her life, or perhaps twice, had cared about a gentleman.

Yes; Mr Rubb was coming down again. He had written to say that it was necessary that he should again see Miss Mackenzie about the money. The next morning after the conversation which has just been recorded, Miss Mackenzie got another letter about the same money, of which it will be necessary to say more in the next chapter.