Madame de Bernstein was scarcely less pleased than her Virginian nephews at the result of Harry’s final interview with Lady Maria. George informed the Baroness of what had passed, in a billet which he sent to her the same evening; and shortly afterwards her nephew Castlewood, whose visits to his aunt were very rare, came to pay his respects to her, and frankly spoke about the circumstances which had taken place; for no man knew better than my Lord Castlewood how to be frank upon occasion, and now that the business between Maria and Harry was ended what need was there of reticence or hypocrisy? The game had been played, and was over: he had no objection now to speak of its various moves, stratagems, finesses. “She is my own sister,” said my lord, affectionately; “she won’t have many more chances — many more such chances of marrying and establishing herself. I might not approve of the match in all respects, and I might pity your ladyship’s young Virginian favourite: but of course such a piece of good fortune was not to be thrown away, and I was bound to stand by my own flesh and blood.”

“Your candour does your lordship honour,” says Madame de Bernstein, “and your love for your sister is quite edifying!”

“Nay, we have lost the game, and I am speaking sans rancune. It is not for you, who have won, to bear malice,” says my lord, with a bow.

Madame de Bernstein protested she was never in her life in better humour. “Confess, now, Eugene, that visit of Maria to Harry at the spunging-house — that touching giving up of all his presents to her, was a stroke of thy invention?”

“Pity for the young man, and a sense of what was due from Maria to her friend — her affianced lover — in misfortune, sure these were motives sufficient to make her act as she did,” replies Lord Castlewood, demurely.

“But ’twas you advised her, my good nephew?”

Castlewood, with a shrug of his shoulders, owned that he did advise his sister to see Mr. Henry Warrington. “But we should have won, in spite of your ladyship,” he continued, “had not the elder brother made his appearance. And I have been trying to console my poor Maria by showing her what a piece of good fortune it is after all, that we lost.”

“Suppose she had married Harry, and then cousin George had made his appearance?” remarks the Baroness.

“Effectivement,” cries Eugene, taking snuff. “As the grave was to give up its dead, let us be thankful to the grave for disgorging in time! I am bound to say, that Mr. George Warrington seems to be a man of sense, and not more selfish than other elder sons and men of the world. My poor Molly fancied that he might be a — what shall I say? — a greenhorn perhaps is the term — like his younger brother. She fondly hoped that he might be inclined to go share and share alike with Twin junior; in which case, so infatuated was she about the young fellow, that I believe she would have taken him. ‘Harry Warrington, with half a loaf, might do very well,’ says I, ‘but Harry Warrington with no bread, my dear!’”

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