be very
beautiful;--but it seemed to him that she had never been so little
beautiful as when thus pressed close to his bosom. "Come," he said,
still holding her; "you'll give me a kiss?"

"I did do it," she said.

"No;--nothing like it. Oh, if you won't, you know--"

On a sudden she made up her mind, and absolutely did kiss him. She
would sooner have leaped at the blackest, darkest, dirtiest river in
the county. "There," she said, "that will do," gently extricating
herself from his arms. "Some girls are different, I know; but you
must take me as I am, Sir Griffin;--that is, if you do take me."

"Why can't you drop the Sir?"

"Oh yes;--I can do that."

"And you do love me?" There was a pause, while she tried to swallow
the lie. "Come;--I'm not going to marry any girl who is ashamed to
say that she loves me. I like a little flesh and blood. You do love
me?"

"Yes," she said. The lie was told; and for the moment he had to be
satisfied. But in his heart he didn't believe her. It was all very
well for her to say that she wasn't like other girls. Why shouldn't
she be like other girls? It might, no doubt, suit her to be made Lady
Tewett;--but he wouldn't make her Lady Tewett if she gave herself
airs with him. She should lie on his breast and swear that she loved
him beyond all the world;--or else she should never be Lady Tewett.
Different from other girls indeed! She should know that he was
different from other men. Then he asked her to come and take a walk
about the grounds. To that she made no objection. She would get her
hat and be with him in a minute.

But she was absent more than ten minutes. When she was alone she
stood before her glass looking at herself, and then she burst into
tears. Never before had she been thus polluted. The embrace had
disgusted her. It made her odious to herself. And if this, the
beginning of it, were so bad, how was she to drink the cup to the
bitter dregs? Other girls, she knew, were fond of their lovers,--some
so fond of them that all moments of absence were moments, if not of
pain, at any rate of regret. To her, as she stood there ready to tear
herself because of the vileness of her own condition, it now seemed
as though no such love as that were possible to her. For the sake
of this man who was to be her husband, she hated all men. Was not
everything around her base, and mean, and sordid? She had understood
thoroughly the quick divulgings of Mrs. Carbuncle's tidings, the
working