atch and chain. 'I never will
speak to George Whitstable again the longest day that ever I live,'
she said, getting up from her chair.

'My dear, don't say anything so horrible as that,' exclaimed the
unhappy mother.

'I do say it. What has George Whitstable to do with me? A miserably
stupid fellow! Because you've landed him, you think he's to ride over
the whole family.'

'I think Mr Brehgert ought to have his watch and chain back,' said
Sophia.

'Certainly he ought,' said Lady Pomona. 'Georgiana, it must be sent
back. It really must,--or I shall tell your papa.'

Subsequently, on the same day, Georgiana brought the watch and chain
to her mother, protesting that she had never thought of keeping them,
and explaining that she had intended to hand them over to her papa as
soon as he should have returned to Caversham. Lady Pomona was now
empowered to return them, and they were absolutely confided to the
hands of the odious George Whitstable, who about this time made a
journey to London in reference to certain garments which he required.
But Georgiana, though she was so far beaten, kept up her quarrel with
her sister. She would not be bridesmaid. She would never speak to
George Whitstable. And she would shut herself up on the day of the
marriage.

She did think herself to be very hardly used. What was there left in
the world that she could do in furtherance of her future cause? And
what did her father and mother expect would become of her? Marriage
had ever been so clearly placed before her eyes as a condition of
things to be achieved by her own efforts, that she could not endure
the idea of remaining tranquil in her father's house and waiting till
some fitting suitor might find her out. She had struggled and
struggled, struggling still in vain,--till every effort of her mind,
every thought of her daily life, was pervaded by a conviction that as
she grew older from year to year, the struggle should be more intense.
The swimmer when first he finds himself in the water, conscious of his
skill and confident in his strength, can make his way through the
water with the full command of all his powers. But when he begins to
feel that the shore is receding from him, that his strength is going,
that the footing for which he pants is still far beneath his feet,--
that there is peril where before he had contemplated no danger,--then
he begins to beat the water with strokes rapid but impotent, and to
waste in anxious gaspings