ting her forefinger to her lips, with
a little frown, and then stretching out the finger with decision.
"Short--just above my shoulder--crying to make himself tall by turning
up his mustache and keeping his beard long--a glass in his right eye to
give him an air of distinction--a strong opinion about his waistcoat,
but uncertain and trimming about the weather, on which he will try to
draw me out. He will stare at me all the while, and the glass in his
eye will cause him to make horrible faces, especially when he smiles in
a flattering way. I shall cast down my eyes in consequence, and he will
perceive that I am not indifferent to his attentions. I shall dream
that night that I am looking at the extraordinary face of a magnified
insect--and the next morning he will make an offer of his hand; the
sequel as before."

"That is a portrait of some one you have seen already, Gwen. Mr.
Grandcourt may be a delightful young man for what you know."

"Oh, yes," said Gwendolen, with a high note of careless admission,
taking off her best hat and turning it round on her hand
contemplatively. "I wonder what sort of behavior a delightful young man
would have? I know he would have hunters and racers, and a London house
and two country-houses--one with battlements and another with a
veranda. And I feel sure that with a little murdering he might get a
title."

The irony of this speech was of the doubtful sort that has some genuine
belief mixed up with it. Poor Mrs. Davilow felt uncomfortable under it.
Her own meanings being usually literal and in intention innocent; and
she said with a distressed brow:

"Don't talk in that way, child, for heaven's sake! you do read such
books--they give you such ideas of everything. I declare when your aunt
and I were your age we knew nothing about wickedness. I think it was
better so."

"Why did you not bring me up in that way, mamma?" said Gwendolen. But
immediately perceiving in the crushed look and rising sob that she had
given a deep wound, she tossed down her hat and knelt at her mother's
feet crying--

"Mamma, mamma! I was only speaking in fun. I meant nothing."

"How could I, Gwendolen?" said poor Mrs. Davilow, unable to hear the
retraction, and sobbing violently while she made the effort to speak.
"Your will was always too strong for me--if everything else had been
different."

This disjoined logic was intelligible enough to the daughter. "Dear
mamma, I don't find fault with you--I love