e truth, Mary, who
had received no confidence from her cousin,--and who was a girl slow
to excite or give a confidence,--had seen some sign, or heard some
word which had created on her mind a suspicion of the truth. It was
not that she thought that Clary's heart was irrecoverably given to
the young man, but that there seemed to be just something with which
it might be as well that she herself should not interfere. She was
there on sufferance,--dependent on her uncle's charity for her daily
bread, let her uncle say what he might to the contrary. As yet she
hardly knew her cousins, and was quite sure that she was not known by
them. She heard that Ralph Newton was a man of fashion, and the heir
to a large fortune. She knew herself to be utterly destitute,--but
she knew herself to be possessed of great beauty. In her bosom,
doubtless, there was an ambition to win by her beauty, from some man
whom she could love, those good things of which she was so destitute.
She did not lack ambition, and had her high hopes, grounded on the
knowledge of her own charms. Her beauty, and a certain sufficiency
of intellect,--of the extent of which she was in a remarkable degree
herself aware,--were the gifts with which she had been endowed. But
she knew when she might use them honestly and when she ought to
refrain from using them. Ralph had looked at her as men do look who
wish to be allowed to love. All this to her was much more clearly
intelligible than to Clarissa, who was two years her senior. Though
she had seen Ralph but thrice, she already felt that she might have
him on his knees before her, if she cared so to place him. But there
was that suspicion of something which had gone before, and a feeling
that honour and gratitude,--perhaps, also, self-interest,--called
upon her to be cold in her manner to Ralph Newton. She had purposely
avoided his companionship in their walk home from Mrs. Brownlow's
house; and now, as they wandered about the lawn and shrubberies of
Popham Villa, she took care not to be with him out of earshot of
the others. In all of which there was ten times more of womanly
cleverness,--or cunning, shall we say,--than had yet come to the
possession of Clarissa Underwood.

Cunning she was;--but she did not deserve that the objectionable
epithet should be applied to her. The circumstances of her life had
made her cunning. She had been the mistress of her father's house
since her fifteenth year, and for two years of her l