be the
last to say that a lady of our name and family is not good enough for
any gentleman born in Virginia or elsewhere."

"Let Fanny take an English gentleman, Countess, not an American. With
such a name and such a mother to help her, and with all her good looks
and accomplishments, sure, she can't fail of finding a man worthy of
her. But from what I know about the daughters of this house, and what I
imagine about our young cousin, I am certain that no happy match could
be made between them."

"What does my aunt know about me?" asked Lady Fanny, turning very red.

"Only your temper, my dear. You don't suppose that I believe all the
tittle-tattle and scandal which one cannot help hearing in town? But
the temper and early education are sufficient. Only fancy one of you
condemned to leave St. James's and the Mall, and live in a plantation
surrounded by savages! You would die of ennui, or worry your husband's
life out with your ill-humour. You are born, ladies, to ornament
courts--not wigwams. Let this lad go back to his wilderness with a wife
who is suited to him."

The other two ladies declared in a breath that, for their parts, they
desired no better, and, after a few more words, went on their way, while
Madame de Bernstein, lifting up her tapestried door, retired into her
own chamber. She saw all the scheme now; she admired the ways of women,
calling a score of little circumstances back to mind. She wondered at
her own blindness during the last few days, and that she should not have
perceived the rise and progress of this queer little intrigue. How far
had it gone? was now the question. Was Harry's passion of the serious
and tragical sort, or a mere fire of straw which a day or two would burn
out? How deeply was he committed? She dreaded the strength of Harry's
passion, and the weakness of Maria's. A woman of her age is so
desperate, Madame Bernstein may have thought, that she will make any
efforts to secure a lover. Scandal, bah! She will retire and be a
princess in Virginia, and leave the folks in England to talk as much
scandal as they choose.

Is there always, then, one thing which women do not tell to one another,
and about which they agree to deceive each other? Does the concealment
arise from deceit or modesty? A man, as soon as he feels an inclination
for one of the other sex, seeks for a friend of his own to whom he may
impart the delightful intelligence. A woman (with more or less skill)
buries her sec