air, which is, let me
impress upon you, no mean quality. After riding out for hours with a
sweet comrade, who has thrown the mantle of dignity half-way off her
shoulders, it is perplexing, and mixed strangely of humiliation and
ecstasy, to come upon her clouded majesty where she reclines as upon
rose-hued clouds, in a mystic circle of restriction (she who laughed at
your jokes, and capped them, two hours ago) a queen.

Between Margaret Lovell and Edward there was a misunderstanding, of which
no one knew the nature, for they spoke in public very respectfully one of
the other. It had been supposed that they were lovers once; but when
lovers quarrel, they snarl, they bite, they worry; their eyes are indeed
unveiled, and their mouths unmuzzled. Now Margaret said of Edward: "He is
sure to rise; he has such good principles." Edward said of Margaret: "She
only wants a husband who will keep her well in hand." These sentences
scarcely carried actual compliments when you knew the speakers; but
outraged lovers cannot talk in that style after they have broken apart.
It is possible that Margaret and Edward conveyed to one another as sharp
a sting as envenomed lovers attempt. Gossip had once betrothed them, but
was now at fault. The lady had a small jointure, and lived partly with
her uncle, Lord Elling, partly with Squire Blancove, her aunt's husband,
and a little by herself, which was when she counted money in her purse,
and chose to assert her independence. She had a name in the world. There
is a fate attached to some women, from Helen of Troy downward, that blood
is to be shed for them. One duel on behalf of a woman is a reputation to
her for life; two are notoriety. If she is very young, can they be
attributable to her? We charge them naturally to her overpowering beauty.
It happened that Mrs. Lovell was beautiful. Under the light of the two
duels her beauty shone as from an illumination of black flame. Boys
adored Mrs. Lovell. These are moths. But more, the birds of air, nay,
grave owls (who stand in this metaphor for whiskered experience)
thronged, dashing at the apparition of terrible splendour. Was it her
fault that she had a name in the world?

Mrs. Margaret Lovell's portrait hung in Edward's room. It was a
photograph exquisitely coloured, and was on the left of a dark Judith,
dark with a serenity of sternness. On the right hung another coloured
photograph of a young lady, also fair; and it was a point of taste to
choose b