Moreover, tell a woman to put back, when she is once clearly launched! Timid as she may be, her light bark bounds to meet the tempest.

I speak of women who do launch: they are not numerous, but, to the wise, the minorities are the representatives.
'Indeed, it is an intricate game!' said the Countess, at the conclusion of the squire's explanation, and leaned over to Mrs.Shorne to ask her if she thoroughly understood it.
'Yes, I suppose I do,' was the reply; 'it--rather than the amusement they find in it.' This lady had recovered Mr.Parsley from Rose, but had only succeeded in making the curate unhappy, without satisfying herself.
The Countess gave her the shrug of secret sympathy.
'We must not say so,' she observed aloud--most artlessly, and fixed the squire with a bewitching smile, under which her heart beat thickly.

As her eyes travelled from Mrs.Shorne to the squire, she had marked Lady Racial looking singularly at Evan, who was mounting the horse of Bob the groom.
'Fine young fellow, that,' said the squire to Lady Racial, as Evan rode off with Rose.
'An extremely handsome, well-bred young man,' she answered.

Her eyes met the Countess's, and the Countess, after resting on their surface with an ephemeral pause, murmured: 'I must not praise my brother,' and smiled a smile which was meant to mean: 'I think with you, and thank you, and love you for admiring him.' Had Lady Racial joined the smile and spoken with animation afterwards, the Countess would have shuddered and had chills of dread.

As it was, she was passably content.