t. She had thus made herself
understood, though she had not said the word which seemed to imply a
plural number. "But you'll be down at Manor Cross," said Lord George.

"You don't mean to keep me there always."

"No, not always; but when you come back to London it may be to another
house."

"You don't mean St. James' Square?" But that was just what he did mean.
"I hope we shan't have to live in that prison."

"It's one of the best houses in London," said Lord George, with a
certain amount of family pride. "It used to be, at least, before the
rich tradesmen had built all those palaces at South Kensington."

"It's dreadfully dingy."

"Because it has not been painted lately. Brotherton has never done
anything like anybody else."

"Couldn't we keep this and let that place?"

"Not very well. My father and grandfather, and great-grandfather lived
there. I think we had better wait a bit and see." Then she felt sure
that the glory was coming. Lord George would never have spoken of her
living in St. James' Square had he not felt almost certain that it
would soon come about.

Early in February her father came to town, and he was quite certain.
"The poor wretch can't speak articulately," he said.

"Who says so, papa?"

"I have taken care to find out the truth. What a life! And what a
death! He is there all alone. Nobody ever sees him but an Italian
doctor. If it's a boy, my dear, he will be my lord as soon as he's
born; or for the matter of that, if it's a girl she will be my lady."

"I wish it wasn't so."

"You must take it all as God sends it, Mary."

"They've talked about it till I'm sick of it," said Mary angrily. Then
she checked herself and added--"I don't mean you, papa; but at Manor
Cross they all flatter me now, because that poor man is dying. If you
were me you wouldn't like that."

"You've got to bear it, my dear. It's the way of the world. People at
the top of the tree are always flattered. You can't expect that Mary
Lovelace and the Marchioness of Brotherton will be treated in the same
way."

"Of course it made a difference when I was married."

"But suppose you had married a curate in the neighbourhood."

"I wish I had," said Mary wildly, "and that someone had given him the
living of Pugsty." But it all tended in the same direction. She began
to feel now that it must be, and must be soon. She would, she told
herself, endeavour to do her duty; she would be loving to all who had
been kind to her