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