rope-dancer’s daughter,” Mrs. Bute said to her eldest girl (who, on the contrary, was a very swarthy, short, and snub-nosed young lady), “you might have had superb diamonds, forsooth, and have been presented at court by your cousin, the Lady Jane.  But you’re only a gentlewoman, my poor dear child.  You have only some of the best blood in England in your veins, and good principles and piety for your portion.  I myself, the wife of a baronet’s younger brother, too, never thought of such a thing as going to court—­nor would other people if good Queen Charlotte had been alive.”  In this way the worthy rectoress consoled herself; and her daughters sighed, and sat over the Peerage all night....

When the ladies of Gaunt House were at breakfast that morning Lord Steyne (who took his chocolate in private, and seldom disturbed the females of his household, or saw them except upon public days, or when they crossed each other in the hall, or when from his pit-box at the opera he surveyed them in their box in the grand tier)—­his lordship, we say, appeared among the ladies and the children, who were assembled over the tea and toast, and a battle royal ensued apropos of Rebecca.

“My Lady Steyne,” he said, “I want to see the list for your dinner on Friday; and I want you, if you please, to write a card for Colonel and Mrs. Crawley.”

“Blanche writes them,” Lady Steyne said, in a flutter.  “Lady Gaunt writes them.”

“I will not write to that person,” Lady Gaunt said, a tall and stately lady, who looked up for an instant and then down again after she had spoken.  It was not good to meet Lord Steyne’s eyes for those who had offended him.

“Send the children out of the room.  Go!” said he, pulling at the bell-rope.  The urchins, always frightened before him, retired; their mother would have followed too.  “Not you.” he said.  “You stop.”

“My Lady Steyne,” he said, “once more, will you have the goodness to go to the desk and write that card for your dinner on Friday?”

“My Lord, I will not be present at it,” Lady Gaunt said; “I will go home.”

“I wish you would, and stay there.  You will find the bailiffs at Bare-acres very pleasant company; and I shall be freed from lending money to your relations, and from your own damned tragedy airs.  Who are you, to give orders here?  You have no money.  You’ve got no brains.  You were here to have children, and you have not had any.  Gaunt’s tired of you; and George’s wife is the only person in the family who doesn’t wish you were dead.  Gaunt would marry again if you were.”

“I wish I were,” her ladyship answered, with tears and rage in her eyes.

“You, forsooth, must give yourself airs of virtue; while my wife, who is an immaculate saint, as every body knows, and never did wrong in her life, has no objection to meet my young friend, Mrs. Crawley.  My Lady Steyne knows that appearances are sometimes against the best of women; that lies are often told about the most innocent of them.  Pray, madam, shall I tell you some little anecdotes about my Lady Bareacres, your mamma?”