f it.

"Sweetest angel, be not so cold," said he, and as he said it the
champagne broke forth, and he contrived to pass his arm round her
waist. He did this with considerable cleverness, for up to this point
Eleanor had contrived with tolerable success to keep her distance from
him. They had got into a walk nearly enveloped by shrubs, and Mr.
Slope therefore no doubt considered that as they were now alone it was
fitting that he should give her some outward demonstration of that
affection of which he talked so much. It may perhaps be presumed that
the same stamp of measures had been found to succeed with Olivia
Proudie. Be this as it may, it was not successful with Eleanor Bold.

She sprang from him as she would have jumped from an adder, but she
did not spring far--not, indeed, beyond arm's length--and then, quick
as thought, she raised her little hand and dealt him a box on the
ear with such right goodwill that it sounded among the trees like a
miniature thunderclap.

And now it is to be feared that every well-bred reader of these pages
will lay down the book with disgust, feeling that, after all, the
heroine is unworthy of sympathy. She is a hoyden, one will say. At any
rate she is not a lady, another will exclaim. I have suspected her all
through, a third will declare; she has no idea of the dignity of a
matron, or of the peculiar propriety which her position demands. At
one moment she is romping with young Stanhope; then she is making eyes
at Mr. Arabin; anon she comes to fisticuffs with a third lover--and
all before she is yet a widow of two years' standing.

She cannot altogether be defended, and yet it may be averred that she
is not a hoyden, not given to romping nor prone to boxing. It were to
be wished devoutly that she had not struck Mr. Slope in the face. In
doing so she derogated from her dignity and committed herself. Had she
been educated in Belgravia, had she been brought up by any sterner
mentor than that fond father, had she lived longer under the rule of a
husband, she might, perhaps, have saved herself from this great fault.
As it was, the provocation was too much for her, the temptation to
instant resentment of the insult too strong. She was too keen in the
feeling of independence, a feeling dangerous for a young woman, but
one in which her position peculiarly tempted her to indulge. And then
Mr. Slope's face, tinted with a deeper dye than usual by the wine he
had drunk, simpering and puckering i