have
an independent spirit, and is in favour of Mary Denbigh at present;
but she is too much a woman of the world not to accept the inevitable.
And we have been friends for five-and-forty years. She could not get
along without me. I have not been idle in this matter. I sing your
praises to her, assure her that you have never crossed my will in
anything. Last night I told her how sweetly you had submitted to
buying that coloured gown, and to wear that fillet--it becomes you
marvellously well. I have also told her what a tractable daughter you
were."

"I couldn't help myself. I had not a penny of my own----"

"One of the unwritten laws of the world you now live in is to
tell the least of all you know. The fact remains. You _were_
tractable--submissive. You never made a scene for poor Harold
in your life."

"He wouldn't have known if I had."

"Well, well, I am sure you are submissive, and always will be when
your interest demands it. I admire a certain amount of spirit, and
your difference from all these other girls, whatever it is, makes you
very attractive to the young men. Abergenny says that you are an
out-of-door goddess, which I think very pretty; but on the whole I
prefer Hunsdon's protest: that you are the most womanly woman he ever
set eyes on."

"It has more sense. I never read in any mythology of indoor goddesses.
Opinion seems to differ, however. Lady Mary said to me yesterday: 'You
are so masculine, dear Miss Percy. You make us all look the merest
females!'"

"Mary Denbigh is a cat. You know she is a cat. She would give Maria
many a scratch if she caught Hunsdon. But she will not. It is all in
your own hands, my dear."

Anne did not make the hoped for response. She did not even blush, and
Mrs. Nunn continued, anxiety creeping into her voice: "You need never
be much thrown with Maria. She would settle herself in the dower house
which is almost as fine as Hunsdon Towers. In town she has her own
house in Grosvenor Square. Hunsdon House in Piccadilly--one of the
greatest mansions in London--would be all your own."

But she could not command the attention of her niece again, and
permitting herself to conclude that the maiden was lost in a pleasing
reverie, she subsided into silence, closed her eyes to the beauty of
land and sea, and also declined into reverie, drowsy reverie in which
pictures of herself in all the glory of near kinship to a beautiful
and wealthy young peeress, were mixed with speculati