ulness and ingratitude?

'Dear grandmother, Lesbia has so much to do--her life is so full of
engagements,' she faltered feebly.

'Yes, she goes from party to party--she gives herself up heart and mind
and soul to pleasures which she ought to consider only as the trivial
means to great ends; and she forgets the woman who reared her, and cared
for her, and watched over her from her infancy, and who tried to inspire
her with a noble ambition.--Yes, read to me, child, read. Give me new
thoughts, if you can, for my brain is weary with grinding the old ones.
There was a grand debate in the Lords last night, and Lord Hartfield
spoke. Let me hear his speech. You can read what was said by the man
before him; never mind the rest.'

Mary read Lord Somebody's speech, which was passing dull, but which
prepared the ground for a magnificent and exhaustive reply from Lord
Hartfield. The question was an important one, affecting the well-being
of the masses, and Lord Hartfield spoke with an eloquence which rose in
force and fire as he wound himself like a serpent into the heart of his
subject--beginning quietly, soberly, with no opening flashes of
rhetoric, but rising gradually to the topmost heights of oratory.

'What a speech!' cried Lady Maulevrier, delighted, her cheeks glowing,
her eyes kindling; 'what a noble fellow the speaker must be! Oh, Mary, I
must tell you a secret. I loved that man's father. Yes, my dear, I loved
him fondly, dearly, truly, as you love that young man of yours; and he
was the only man I ever really loved. Fate parted us. But I have never
forgotten him--never, Mary, never. At this moment I have but to close my
eyes and I can see his face--see him looking at me as he looked the last
time we met. He was a younger son, poor, his future quite hopeless in
those days; but it was not my fault we were parted. I would have married
him--yes, wedded poverty, just as you are going to marry this Mr.
Hammond; but my people would not let me; and I was too young, too
helpless, to make a good fight. Oh, Mary, if I had only fought hard
enough, what a happy woman I might have been, and how good a wife.'

'You were a good wife to my grandfather, I am sure,' faltered Mary, by
way of saying something consolatory.

A dark frown came over Lady Maulevrier's face, which had softened to
deepest tenderness just before.

'A good wife to Maulevrier,' she said, in a mocking tone. Well, yes, as
good a wife as such a husband deserved. '