Mrs. Lovell’s complexion was worth saving from the ravages of an Indian climate, and the persecution of claimants to her hand.  She was golden and white, like an autumnal birch-tree—­yellow hair, with warm-toned streaks in it, shading a fabulously fair skin.  Then, too, she was tall, of a nervous build, supple and proud in motion, a brilliant horsewoman, and a most distinguished sitter in an easy drawing-room chair, which is, let me impress upon you, no mean quality.  After riding out for hours with a sweet comrade, who has thrown the mantle of dignity half-way off her shoulders, it is perplexing, and mixed strangely of humiliation and ecstasy, to come upon her clouded majesty where she reclines as upon rose-hued clouds, in a mystic circle of restriction (she who laughed at your jokes, and capped them, two hours ago) a queen.

Between Margaret Lovell and Edward there was a misunderstanding, of which no one knew the nature, for they spoke in public very respectfully one of the other.  It had been supposed that they were lovers once; but when lovers quarrel, they snarl, they bite, they worry; their eyes are indeed unveiled, and their mouths unmuzzled.  Now Margaret said of Edward:  “He is sure to rise; he has such good principles.”  Edward said of Margaret:  “She only wants a husband who will keep her well in hand.”  These sentences scarcely carried actual compliments when you knew the speakers; but outraged lovers cannot talk in that style after they have broken apart.  It is possible that Margaret and Edward conveyed to one another as sharp a sting as envenomed lovers attempt.  Gossip had once betrothed them, but was now at fault.  The lady had a small jointure, and lived partly with her uncle, Lord Elling, partly with Squire Blancove, her aunt’s husband, and a little by herself, which was when she counted money in her purse, and chose to assert her independence.  She had a name in the world.  There is a fate attached to some women, from Helen of Troy downward, that blood is to be shed for them.  One duel on behalf of a woman is a reputation to her for life; two are notoriety.  If she is very young, can they be attributable to her?  We charge them naturally to her overpowering beauty.  It happened that Mrs. Lovell was beautiful.  Under the light of the two duels her beauty shone as from an illumination of black flame.  Boys adored Mrs. Lovell.  These are moths.  But more, the birds of air, nay, grave owls (who stand in this metaphor for whiskered experience) thronged, dashing at the apparition of terrible splendour.  Was it her fault that she had a name in the world?

Mrs. Margaret Lovell’s portrait hung in Edward’s room.  It was a photograph exquisitely coloured, and was on the left of a dark Judith, dark with a serenity of sternness.  On the right hung another coloured photograph of a young lady, also fair; and it was a point of taste to choose between them.  Do you like the hollowed lily’s cheeks, or the plump rose’s?  Do you like a thinnish fall