longer. There were
but two objections to this course. The first was that Frank Greystock
was not her lover; and the second, that on leaving Fawn Court
she would not know whither to betake herself. It was understood
by everybody that she was never to leave Fawn Court till an
unexceptionable home should be found for her, either with the
Hittaways or elsewhere. Lady Fawn would no more allow her to go away,
depending for her future on the mere chance of some promiscuous
engagement, than she would have turned one of her own daughters out
of the house in the same forlorn condition. Lady Fawn was a tower
of strength to Lucy. But then a tower of strength may at any moment
become a dungeon.

Frank Greystock was not her lover. Ah,--there was the worst of it
all! She had given her heart and had got nothing in return. She
conned it all over in her own mind, striving to ascertain whether
there was any real cause for shame to her in her own conduct. Had she
been unmaidenly? Had she been too forward with her heart? Had it been
extracted from her, as women's hearts are extracted, by efforts on
the man's part; or had she simply chucked it away from her to the
first comer? Then she remembered certain scenes at the deanery, words
that had been spoken, looks that had been turned upon her, a pressure
of the hand late at night, a little whisper, a ribbon that had been
begged, a flower that had been given;--and once, once--; then there
came a burning blush upon her cheek that there should have been so
much, and yet so little that was of avail. She had no right to say
to any one that the man was her lover. She had no right to assure
herself that he was her lover. But she knew that some wrong was done
her in that he was not her lover.

Of the importance of her own self as a living thing with a heart to
suffer and a soul to endure, she thought enough. She believed in
herself, thinking of herself, that should it ever be her lot to be a
man's wife, she would be to him a true, loving friend and companion,
living in his joys, and fighting, if it were necessary, down to the
stumps of her nails in his interests. But of what she had to give
over and above her heart and intellect she never thought at all. Of
personal beauty she had very little appreciation even in others. The
form and face of Lady Eustace, which indeed were very lovely, were
distasteful to her; whereas she delighted to look upon the broad,
plain, colourless countenance of Lydia Fawn,