oesn't can't but think it
delightful. Don't waste your time thinking of your books, your painting,
your accomplishments; if you were Jane Austens, George Eliots, and Rosa
Bonheurs, it would be of no use if you weren't married. A husband is
better than talent, better even than fortune--without a husband a woman
is nothing; with a husband she may rise to any height. Marriage gives a
girl liberty, gives her admiration, gives her success; a woman's whole
position depends upon it. And while we are on the subject it is as well
to have one's say, and I speak for you both. You, Alice, are too much
inclined to shrink into the background and waste your time with books;
and you too, Olive, are behaving very foolishly, wasting your time and
your complexion over a silly girlish flirtation.'

'There's no use talking about that. You have forbidden him the house;
you can't do any more.'

'No, Olive, all I did was to insist that he should not come running
after you until you had had time to consider the sacrifices you were
making for him. I have no one's interest in the world, my dear girl, but
your interests. Officers are all very well to laugh, talk, and flirt
with--_pour passer le temps_--but I couldn't allow you to throw yourself
away on the first man you meet. You will meet hundreds of others quite
as handsome and as nice at the Castle.'

'I never could care for anyone else.'

'Wait until you have seen the others. Besides, what do you want? to be
engaged to him? And I should like to know what is the use of my taking
an engaged girl up to the Castle? No one would look at you.'

Olive raised her eyes in astonishment; she had not considered the
question from this point of view, and the suggestion that, if engaged,
she might as well stop at home, for no one would look at her, filled her
with alarm.

'Whereas,' said Mrs. Barton, who saw that her words had the intended
effect, 'if you were free you would be the season's beauty; nothing
would be thought of but you; you would have lords, and earls, and
marquesses dancing attendance on you, begging you to dance with them;
you would be spoken of in the papers, described as the new beauty, and
what not, and then if you were free--' Here Mrs. Barton heaved a deep
sigh, and, letting her white hand fall over the arm of her chair, she
seemed to abandon herself to the unsearchable decrees of destiny.

'Well, what then, mamma?' asked Olive excitedly. 'I am free, am I not?'

'Then you could