It was true.  If Hester had been Lady Hester, it is possible that the surname of Pratt, if frequently refused by stouter women, might eventually have been offered to her.  But Captain Pratt was determined to marry rank, and nothing short of a Lady Something was of any use to him.  An Honorable was better than nothing, but it did not count for much with him.  It had a way of absenting itself when wanted.  No one was announced as an Honorable.  It did not even appear on cards.  It might he overlooked.  Rank, to be of any practical value, must be apparent, obvious.  Lady Georgiana Pratt, Lady Evelina Pratt!  Any name would do with that prefix.  His eye travelled as far as Sybell and stopped again.  She was “the right sort” herself, and she dressed in the right way.  Why could not Ada and Selina imitate her?  But he had never forgiven her the fact that he had met “a crew of cads” at her house, whom he had been obliged to cut afterwards in the Row.  No, Sybell would not have done for him.  She surrounded herself with vulgar people.

Captain Pratt was far too well-mannered to be guilty of staring, except at pretty maid-servants or shop-girls, and his eye was moved on by the rigid police of etiquette which ruled his every movement.  It paused momentarily on Rachel.  He knew about her, as did every bachelor in London.  A colossal heiress.  She was neither plain nor handsome.  She had a good figure, but not good enough to counterbalance her nondescript face.  She had not the air of distinction which he was so quick to detect and appraise.  She was a social nonentity.  He did not care to look at her a second time.  “I would not marry her with twice her fortune,” he said to himself.

* * * * *

Regie’s hand had stolen into Hester’s.  His even breathing, felt rather than heard, as he dropped asleep against her shoulder, surrounded Hester with the atmosphere of peace and comfort which his father had broken earlier in the day.  Regie often brought back to her what his father wrested from her.

She listened to the sermon as from a warm nest safely raised above the quaggy ground of personal feeling.

“Dear James!  How good he is! how much in earnest!  But worms don’t go in at back-doors.  Why are not clergymen taught a few elementary rules of composition before they are ordained?  But perhaps no one will notice it except myself.  James is certainly a saint.  He has the courage of his opinions.  I believe he loves God and the Church with his whole heart, and would go to the stake for them, or send me there if he thought it was for the good of my soul.  Why has he no power?  Why is he so much disliked in the parish and neighborhood?  I am sure it is not because he has small abilities, and makes puns, and says cut-and-dried things.  How many excellent clergymen who do the same are beloved?  Is it because he deals with every one as he deals with me?  What dreadful things he thinks of me.