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couldn’t deny it. His father’s evident liking for Miss Sharp
had not escaped him. He knew the old gentleman’s charac-
ter well; and a more unscrupulous old— whyou—he did not
conclude the sentence, but walked home, curling his mus-
tachios, and convinced he had found a clue to Mrs. Bute’s
mystery.
‘By Jove, it’s too bad,’ thought Rawdon, ‘too bad, by Jove!
I do believe the woman wants the poor girl to be ruined, in
order that she shouldn’t come into the family as Lady Craw-
ley.’
When he saw Rebecca alone, he rallied her about his fa-
ther’s attachment in his graceful way. She flung up her head
scornfully, looked him full in the face, and said,
‘Well, suppose he is fond of me. I know he is, and others
too. You don’t think I am afraid of him, Captain Crawley?
You don’t suppose I can’t defend my own honour,’ said the
little woman, looking as stately as a queen.
‘Oh, ah, why—give you fair warning—look out, you
know—that’s all,’ said the mustachio-twiddler.
‘You hint at something not honourable, then?’ said she,
flashing out.
‘O Gad—really—Miss Rebecca,’ the heavy dragoon in-
terposed.
‘Do you suppose I have no feeling of self-respect, because
I am poor and friendless, and because rich people have
none? Do you think, because I am a governess, I have not as
much sense, and feeling, and good breeding as you gentle-
folks in Hampshire? I’m a Montmorency. Do you suppose a
Montmorency is not as good as a Crawley?’

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