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Sir Joshua would have been glad to take her portrait; and he would have had an easier task than the historian at least in this, that he would not have had to represent the truth of change only to give stability to one beautiful moment. "The dancing will come next," said Mrs. Davilow "You are sure to enjoy that." "I shall only dance in the quadrille. I told Mr. Clintock so.

"Quite right, mamma," said Gwendolen, in the same tone, turning to put away some music. "Am I not to know anything now, Gwendolen? Am I always to be in the dark?" said Mrs. Davilow, too keenly sensitive to her daughter's manner and expression not to fear that something painful had occurred. "There is really nothing to tell now, mamma," said Gwendolen, in a still higher voice.

She had waked up to the signs that she was irrevocably engaged, and all the ugly visions, the alarms, the arguments of the night, must be met by daylight, in which probably they would show themselves weak. "What I long for is your happiness, dear," continued Mrs. Davilow, pleadingly. "I will not say anything to vex you. Will you not put on the ring?"

There is no more to be said. Things cannot be altered, and who cares? It makes no difference to any one else what we do. We must try not to care ourselves. We must not give way. I dread giving way. Help me to be quiet." Mrs. Davilow was like a frightened child under her daughter's face and voice; her tears were arrested and she went away in silence.

I am not fond of anything sombre." "Your place of Offendene is too sombre." "It is, rather." "You will not remain there long, I hope." "Oh, yes, I think so. Mamma likes to be near her sister." Silence for a short space. "It is not to be supposed that you will always live there, though Mrs. Davilow may." "I don't know.

A messenger had run with it in great haste from the rectory. It enclosed a telegram, and as Mrs. Davilow read and re-read it in silence and agitation, all eyes were turned on her with anxiety, but no one dared to speak.

"Don't ask me to guess anything," said Gwendolen, rather impatiently, as if a bruise were being pressed. "It is addressed to you, dear." Gwendolen gave the slightest perceptible toss of the head. "It comes from Diplow," said Mrs. Davilow, giving her the letter.

I wish you had given me your perfectly straight nose; it would have done for any sort of character a nose of all work. Mine is only a happy nose; it would not do so well for tragedy." "Oh, my dear, any nose will do to be miserable with in this world," said Mrs. Davilow, with a deep, weary sigh, throwing her black bonnet on the table, and resting her elbow near it.

Then, in order to have Gwendolen as a guest, it was not necessary to ask any one who was disagreeable, for Mrs. Davilow always made a quiet, picturesque figure as a chaperon, and Mr. Gascoigne was everywhere in request for his own sake. Among the houses where Gwendolen was not quite liked, and yet invited, was Quetcham Hall.

"You do want your earrings?" "No, mamma; I shall not wear any ornaments, and I shall put on my black silk. Black is the only wear when one is going to refuse an offer," said Gwendolen, with one of her old smiles at her mother, while she rose to throw off her dressing-gown. "Suppose the offer is not made after all," said Mrs. Davilow, not without a sly intention.