for five hundred pounds, and Gwendolen turned it toward
her mother, with the letter.

"How very kind and delicate!" said Mrs. Davilow, with much feeling.
"But I really should like better not to be dependent on a son-in-law. I
and the girls could get along very well."

"Mamma, if you say that again, I will not marry him," said Gwendolen,
angrily.

"My dear child, I trust you are not going to marry only for my sake,"
said Mrs. Davilow, depreciatingly.

Gwendolen tossed her head on the pillow away from her mother, and let
the ring lie. She was irritated at this attempt to take away a motive.
Perhaps the deeper cause of her irritation was the consciousness that
she was not going to marry solely for her mamma's sake--that she was
drawn toward the marriage in ways against which stronger reasons than
her mother's renunciation were yet not strong enough to hinder her. She
had waked up to the signs that she was irrevocably engaged, and all the
ugly visions, the alarms, the arguments of the night, must be met by
daylight, in which probably they would show themselves weak. "What I
long for is your happiness, dear," continued Mrs. Davilow, pleadingly.
"I will not say anything to vex you. Will you not put on the ring?"

For a few moments Gwendolen did not answer, but her thoughts were
active. At last she raised herself with a determination to do as she
would do if she had started on horseback, and go on with spirit,
whatever ideas might be running in her head.

"I thought the lover always put on the betrothal ring himself," she
said laughingly, slipping the ring on her finger, and looking at it
with a charming movement of her head. "I know why he has sent it," she
added, nodding at her mamma.

"Why?"

"He would rather make me put it on than ask me to let him do it. Aha!
he is very proud. But so am I. We shall match each other. I should hate
a man who went down on his knees, and came fawning on me. He really is
not disgusting."

"That is very moderate praise, Gwen."

"No, it is not, for a man," said Gwendolen gaily. "But now I must get
up and dress. Will you come and do my hair, mamma, dear," she went on,
drawing down her mamma's face to caress it with her own cheeks, "and
not be so naughty any more as to talk of living in poverty? You must
bear to be made comfortable, even if you don't like it. And Mr.
Grandcourt behaves perfectly, now, does he not?"

"Certainly he does," said Mrs. Davilow, encouraged, and persuaded t