le and
useful, Mary. Beauty is of very little consequence in reality," said
Rosamond, turning her head towards Mary, but with eyes swerving towards
the new view of her neck in the glass.

"You mean my beauty," said Mary, rather sardonically.

Rosamond thought, "Poor Mary, she takes the kindest things ill." Aloud
she said, "What have you been doing lately?"

"I? Oh, minding the house--pouring out syrup--pretending to be amiable
and contented--learning to have a bad opinion of everybody."

"It is a wretched life for you."

"No," said Mary, curtly, with a little toss of her head. "I think my
life is pleasanter than your Miss Morgan's."

"Yes; but Miss Morgan is so uninteresting, and not young."

"She is interesting to herself, I suppose; and I am not at all sure
that everything gets easier as one gets older."

"No," said Rosamond, reflectively; "one wonders what such people do,
without any prospect. To be sure, there is religion as a support.
But," she added, dimpling, "it is very different with you,'Mary. You
may have an offer."

"Has any one told you he means to make me one?"

"Of course not. I mean, there is a gentleman who may fall in love with
you, seeing you almost every day."

A certain change in Mary's face was chiefly determined by the resolve
not to show any change.

"Does that always make people fall in love?" she answered, carelessly;
"it seems to me quite as often a reason for detesting each other."

"Not when they are interesting and agreeable. I hear that Mr. Lydgate
is both."

"Oh, Mr. Lydgate!" said Mary, with an unmistakable lapse into
indifference. "You want to know something about him," she added, not
choosing to indulge Rosamond's indirectness.

"Merely, how you like him."

"There is no question of liking at present. My liking always wants
some little kindness to kindle it. I am not magnanimous enough to like
people who speak to me without seeming to see me."

"Is he so haughty?" said Rosamond, with heightened satisfaction. "You
know that he is of good family?"

"No; he did not give that as a reason."

"Mary! you are the oddest girl. But what sort of looking man is he?
Describe him to me."

"How can one describe a man? I can give you an inventory: heavy
eyebrows, dark eyes, a straight nose, thick dark hair, large solid
white hands--and--let me see--oh, an exquisite cambric
pocket-handkerchief. But you will see him. You know this is about the
time of his visits.