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mething to say to me. 'Well, Mary,' she began at once, 'what do you think of her?' 'Of Mrs. Darrell?' 'Of course.' 'What opinion can I possibly form about her, after seeing her for three minutes, Milly? I think she is very elegant-looking. That is the only idea I have about her yet.' 'Do you think she looks _true_, Mary? Do you think she has married papa because she loves him?' 'My dear child, how can I tell that? She is a great many years younger than your papa, but I do not see that the difference between them need be any real hindrance to her loving him. He is a man whom any woman might care for, I should think; to say nothing of her natural gratitude towards the man who has rescued her from a position of dependence.' 'Gratitude is all nonsense,' Miss Darrell answered impatiently. 'I want to know that my father is loved as he deserves to be loved. I shall never tolerate that woman unless I can feel sure of that.' 'I believe you are prejudiced against her already, Milly,' I said reproachfully. 'I daresay I am, Mary. I daresay I feel unjustly about her; but I don't like her face.' 'What is there in her face that you don't like?' 'O, I can't tell you that--an undefinable something. I have a sort of conviction that she and I can never love each other.' 'It is rather hard upon Mrs. Darrell to begin with such a feeling as that, Milly.' 'I can't help it. Of course I shall try to do my duty to her, for papa's sake, and I shall do my best to conquer all these unchristian feelings. But we cannot command our hearts, you know, Mary, and I don't think I shall ever love my stepmother.' She took me down to the drawing-room after this. It was half-past six, and we were to dine at seven. The drawing-room was a long room, with five windows opening on to the terrace, an old-fashioned- looking room with panelled walls and a fine arched ceiling. The wainscot was painted white, with gilt mouldings, and the cornice and architraves of the doors were elaborately carved. The furniture was white-and-gold like the walls, and in that spurious classical style which prevailed during the first French Empire. The window-curtains and coverings of sofas and chairs were of dark-green velvet. A gentleman was standing in one of the open windows looking out at the garden. He turned as Milly and I went in, and I recognised Mr. Stormont. He came forward to shake hands with his cousin, and smiled his peculiar slow smile at
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