"What is the matter? What has he done?"
"My uncle and he disagree on politics," interposed the low voice of Caroline. She had better not have spoken just then: having scarcely joined in the conversation before, it was not apropos to do it now: she felt this, with nervous acuteness, as soon as she had spoken, and coloured to the eyes.
"What are Moore's politics?" inquired Shirley.
"Those of a tradesman," returned the Rector; "narrow, selfish, and unpatriotic. The man is eternally writing and speaking against the continuance of the war: I have no patience with him."
"The war hurts his trade. I remember he remarked that only yesterday. But what other objection have you to him?"
"That is enough."
"He looks the gentleman, in my sense of the term," pursued Shirley, "and it pleases me to think he is such."
Caroline rent the Tyrian petals of the one brilliant flower in her bouquet, and answered, in distinct tones—"Decidedly he is." Shirley, hearing this courageous affirmation, flashed an arch, searching glance at the speaker from her deep, expressive eyes.
"You are his friend, at any rate," she said; "you defend him in his absence."
