“You mean my beauty,” said Mary, rather sardonically.

Rosamond thought, “Poor Mary, she takes the kindest things ill.”  Aloud she said, “What have you been doing lately?”

“I?  Oh, minding the house—­pouring out syrup—­pretending to be amiable and contented—­learning to have a bad opinion of everybody.”

“It is a wretched life for you.”

“No,” said Mary, curtly, with a little toss of her head.  “I think my life is pleasanter than your Miss Morgan’s.”

“Yes; but Miss Morgan is so uninteresting, and not young.”

“She is interesting to herself, I suppose; and I am not at all sure that everything gets easier as one gets older.”

“No,” said Rosamond, reflectively; “one wonders what such people do, without any prospect.  To be sure, there is religion as a support.  But,” she added, dimpling, “it is very different with you,’Mary.  You may have an offer.”

“Has any one told you he means to make me one?”

“Of course not.  I mean, there is a gentleman who may fall in love with you, seeing you almost every day.”

A certain change in Mary’s face was chiefly determined by the resolve not to show any change.

“Does that always make people fall in love?” she answered, carelessly; “it seems to me quite as often a reason for detesting each other.”

“Not when they are interesting and agreeable.  I hear that Mr. Lydgate is both.”

“Oh, Mr. Lydgate!” said Mary, with an unmistakable lapse into indifference.  “You want to know something about him,” she added, not choosing to indulge Rosamond’s indirectness.

“Merely, how you like him.”

“There is no question of liking at present.  My liking always wants some little kindness to kindle it.  I am not magnanimous enough to like people who speak to me without seeming to see me.”

“Is he so haughty?” said Rosamond, with heightened satisfaction.  “You know that he is of good family?”

“No; he did not give that as a reason.”

“Mary! you are the oddest girl.  But what sort of looking man is he?  Describe him to me.”

“How can one describe a man?  I can give you an inventory:  heavy eyebrows, dark eyes, a straight nose, thick dark hair, large solid white hands—­and—­let me see—­oh, an exquisite cambric pocket-handkerchief.  But you will see him.  You know this is about the time of his visits.”

Rosamond blushed a little, but said, meditatively, “I rather like a haughty manner.  I cannot endure a rattling young man.”

“I did not tell you that Mr. Lydgate was haughty; but il y en a pour tous les gouts, as little Mamselle used to say, and if any girl can choose the particular sort of conceit she would like, I should think it is you, Rosy.”

“Haughtiness is not conceit; I call Fred conceited.”

“I wish no one said any worse of him.  He should be more careful.  Mrs. Waule has been telling uncle that Fred is very unsteady.”  Mary spoke from a girlish impulse which got the better of her judgment.  There was a vague uneasiness associated with the word “unsteady” which she hoped Rosamond might say something to dissipate.  But she purposely abstained from mentioning Mrs. Waule’s more special insinuation.