that you Americans don't seem to have ancestresses.'
Laura gave no sign of having heard these observations; she was occupied in brushing away her tears. 'Everything is so changed—you don't know,' she remarked in a moment. 'Nothing could have been happier—nothing could have been sweeter. And now to be so dependent—so helpless—so poor!'
'Have you nothing at all?' asked Lady Davenant, with simplicity.
'Only enough to pay for my clothes.'
'That's a good deal, for a girl. You are uncommonly dressy, you know.'
'I'm sorry I seem so. That's just the way I don't want to look.'
'You Americans can't help it; you "wear" your very features and your eyes look as if they had just been sent home. But I confess you are not so smart as Selina.'
'Yes, isn't she splendid?' Laura exclaimed, with proud inconsequence. 'And the worse she is the better she looks.'
'Oh my child, if the bad women looked as bad as they are–! It's only the good ones who can afford that,' the old lady murmured.
'It was the last thing I ever thought of—that I should be ashamed,' said Laura.
'Oh, keep your shame till you have more to do with it. It's like lending your umbrella—when you have only one.'
'If anything were to happen—publicly—I should die, I should die!' the girl exclaimed passionately and with a motion that carried her to her feet. This time she settled herself for departure. Lady Davenant's admonition rather frightened than sustained her.
The old woman leaned back in her chair, looking up at her. 'It would be very bad, I daresay. But it wouldn't prevent me from taking you in.'
Laura Wing returned her look, with eyes slightly distended, musing. 'Think of having to come to that!'
Lady Davenant burst out laughing. 'Yes, yes, you must come; you are so original!'
'I don't mean that I don't feel your kindness,' the girl broke out, blushing. 'But to be only protected—always protected: is that a life?'
'Most women are only too thankful and I am bound to say I think you are difficile.' Lady Davenant used a good many French words, in the old-fashioned manner and with a pronunciation not perfectly pure: when she did so she reminded Laura Wing of Mrs. Gore's novels. 'But you shall be better protected than even by me. Nous verrons cela. Only you must stop crying—this isn't a crying country.'
'No, one must have courage here. It takes courage to marry for such a reason.'
'Any reason is good enough that keeps a woman from being an old maid. Besides, you will like him.'
'He must like me first,' said the girl, with a sad smile.
'There's the American again! It isn't necessary. You are too proud—you expect too much.'
'I'm proud for what I am—that's very certain. But I don't expect anything,' Laura Wing declared. 'That's the only form my pride takes. Please give my love to Mrs. Berrington. I am so sorry—so sorry,' she went on, to change the talk from the subject of her marrying. She wanted to marry but she wanted also not to want it and, above all, not to appear to. She lingered in the room, moving about a little; the place was always so pleasant to her that to go away—to return to her own barren home—had the effect of forfeiting a sort of privilege of sanctuary. The afternoon had faded but the lamps had been brought in, the smell of flowers was in the air and the old house of Plash seemed to recognise the hour that suited it best. The quiet old lady in the firelight, encompassed with the symbolic security of chintz and water-colour, gave her a sudden vision of how blessed it would be to jump all the middle dangers of life and have arrived at the end, safely, sensibly, with a cap and gloves and consideration and memories. 'And, Lady Davenant, what does she think?' she asked abruptly, stopping short and referring to Mrs. Berrington.
'Think? Bless your soul, she doesn't do that! If she did, the things she says would be unpardonable.'
'The things she says?'
'That's what makes them so beautiful—that they are not spoiled by preparation. You could never think of them for her.' The girl smiled at this description of the dearest friend of her interlocutress, but she wondered a little what Lady Davenant would say to visitors about her if she should accept a refuge under her roof. Her speech was after all a flattering proof of confidence. 'She wishes it had been you—I happen to know that,' said the old woman.
'It had been me?'
'That Lionel had taken a fancy to.'
'I wouldn't have married him,' Laura rejoined, after a moment.
'Don't say that or you will make me think it won't be easy to help you. I shall depend upon you not to refuse anything so good.'
'I don't call him good. If he were good his wife would be better.'
'Very likely; and if you had married him he would be better, and that's more to the purpose. Lionel is as idiotic as a comic song, but you have cleverness for two.'
'And you have it for fifty, dear Lady Davenant. Never, never—I shall never marry a man I can't respect!' Laura Wing exclaimed.
She had come a little nearer her old friend and taken her hand; her companion held her a moment and with the other hand pushed aside one of the flaps of the waterproof. 'And what is it your clothing costs you?' asked Lady Davenant, looking at the dress underneath and not giving any heed to this declaration.
'I don't exactly know: it takes almost everything that is sent me from America. But that is dreadfully little—only a few pounds. I am a wonderful manager. Besides,' the girl added, 'Selina wants one to be dressed.'
'And doesn't she pay any of your bills?'
'Why, she gives me everything—food, shelter, carriages.'
'Does she never give you money?'
'I wouldn't take it,' said the girl. 'They need everything they have—their life is tremendously expensive.'
'That I'll warrant!' cried the old woman. 'It was a most beautiful property, but I don't know what has become of it now. Ce n'est pas pour vous blesser, but the hole you Americans can make–'
Laura interrupted immediately, holding up her head; Lady Davenant had dropped her hand and she had receded a step. 'Selina brought Lionel a very considerable fortune and every penny of it was paid.'
'Yes, I know it was; Mrs. Berrington told me it was most satisfactory. That's not always the case with the fortunes you young ladies are supposed to bring!' the old lady added, smiling.
The girl looked over her head a moment. 'Why do your men marry for money?'
'Why indeed, my dear? And before your troubles what used your father to give you for your personal expenses?'
'He gave us everything we asked—we had no particular allowance.'
'And I daresay you asked for everything?' said Lady Davenant.
'No doubt we were very dressy, as you say.'
'No wonder he went bankrupt—for he did, didn't he?'
'He had dreadful
