Mrs. Marsett, throwing in a fervent
adjective for balm.

That fair person rode out with the troop under conduct of the hallowing
squire of the stables, and passed by Nesta on horseback beside Dartrey
Fenellan at the steps of a huge hotel; issuing from which, pretty Mrs.
Blathenoy was about to mount. Mrs. Marsett looked ahead and coloured, but
she could not restrain one look at Nesta, that embraced her cavalier.
Nesta waved hand to her, and nodded. Mrs. Marsett withdrew her eyes; her
doing so, silent though it was, resembled the drag back to sea of the
shingle-wave below her, such a screaming of tattle she heard in the
questions discernible through the attitude of the cavalier and of the
lady, who paused to stare, before the leap up in the saddle. 'Who is
she?--what is she?--how did you know her?--where does she come
from?--wears her hat on her brows!--huge gauntlets out of style!--shady!
shady! shady!' And as always during her nervous tumults, the name of
Worrell made diapason of that execrable uproar. Her hat on her brows had
an air of dash, defying a world it could win, as Ned well knew. But she
scanned her gauntlets disapprovingly. This town, we are glad to think,
has a bright repute for glove-shops. And Mrs. Marsett could applaud
herself for sparing Ned's money; she had mended her gloves, if they were
in the fashion.--But how does the money come? Hark at that lady and that
gentleman questioning Miss Radnor of everything, everything in the world
about her! Not a word do they get from Miss Radnor. And it makes them the
more inquisitive. Idle rich people, comfortably fenced round, are so
inquisitive! And Mrs. Marsett, loving Nesta for the notice of her,
maddened by the sting of tongues it was causing, heard the wash of the
beach, without consciousness of analogies, but with a body ready to jump
out of skin, out of life, in desperation at the sound.

She was all impulse; a shifty piece of unmercenary stratagem occasionally
directing it. Arrived at her lodgings, she wrote to Nesta: 'I entreat you
not to notice me, if you pass me on the road again. Let me drop, never
mind how low I go. I was born to be wretched. A line from you, just a
line now and then, only to show me I am not forgotten. I have had a
beautiful dream. I am not bad in reality; I love goodness, I know. I
cling to the thought of you, as my rescue, I declare. Please, let me
hear: if it's not more than "good day" and your initials on a post-card.'

The lett