own family, and I know very well how yon would
receive him in it. Had he money, it would be different. You would
receive him, and welcome him, and hold out your hands to him; but he
is only a poor painter, and we forsooth are bankers in the City; and
he comes among us on sufferance, like those concert-singers whom mamma
treats with so much politeness, and who go down and have supper by
themselves. Why should they not be as good as we are?"

"M. de C----, my dear, is of a noble family," interposed Lady Kew; "when
he has given up singing and made his fortune, no doubt he can go back
into the world again."

"Made his fortune, yes," Ethel continued, "that is the cry. There never
were, since the world began, people so unblushingly sordid! We own it,
and are proud of it. We barter rank against money, and money against
rank, day after day. Why did you marry my father to my mother? Was it
for his wit? You know he might have been an angel and you would have
scorned him. Your daughter was bought with papa's money as surely as
ever Newcome was. Will there be no day when this mammon-worship will
cease among us?"

"Not in my time or yours, Ethel," the elder said, not unkindly; perhaps
she thought of a day long ago before she was old herself.

"We are sold," the young girl went on, "we are as much sold as Turkish
women; the only difference being that our masters may have but one
Circassian at a time. No, there is no freedom for us. I wear my green
ticket, and wait till my master comes. But every day as I think of our
slavery, I revolt against it more. That poor wretch, that poor girl whom
my brother is to marry, why did she not revolt and fly? I would, if I
loved a man sufficiently, loved him better than the world, than wealth,
than rank, than fine houses and titles,--and I feel I love these
best,--I would give up all to follow him. But what can I be with my name
and my parents? I belong to the world like all the rest of my family. It
is you who have bred us up; you who are answerable for us. Why are there
no convents to which we can fly? You make a fine marriage for me; you
provide me with a good husband, a kind soul, not very wise, but very
kind; you make me what you call happy, and I would rather be at the
plough like the women here."

"No, you wouldn't, Ethel," replies the grandmother, drily. "These are
the fine speeches of schoolgirls. The showers of rain would spoil your
complexion--you would be perfectly tired in an hour,