e pleases, being treated like one of the family circle; while
you, miserable creature, can only call at stated intervals, always
dreading the horrid possibility of out-staying your welcome, and
receiving the metaphorical "cold shoulder"--though love may prompt you
to the sacrifice.

Such was my position now.

There was Mr Mawley visiting at Mrs Clyde's house some half-a-dozen
times a week, for all I knew to the contrary--and of course I imagined
the worst--and having endless chances and opportunities of conversing
with my darling, in the morning, at noontide, and at night; while poor,
wretched _I_ had to content myself with a passing bow and smile when we
chanced to meet abroad, or I should happen to see her dainty figure at
the window as I promenaded past her house.

You say I ought to have considered myself lucky to get even that slight
modicum of notice?

But I did _not_ so consider myself. I was not by any means contented.
Where did you ever find a lover worth his salt who was?

To tell the truth, I was horribly jealous of Mawley. He was not at all
a bad-looking fellow; and, with all his dogmatic tone and love of
argument, had a wonderfully taking way with ladies. Besides, his
connection with the Church gave him a considerable pull over me--girls
are so impressionable, as a rule, with regard to nice young curates,
that they generally have the pick of the parish! Really, all things
considered, I'm very much afraid that I had not that kind Christian
feeling and charity in my heart towards Mawley that the vicar had
enjoined in his Christmas sermon. I did not regard the curate even with
that reverence which his Oxford waistcoat should have inspired. I
believe that at that particular time I looked upon him with somewhat of
the same feeling with which the homicidal Cain regarded his brother Abel
about the sacrificing business.

Then, there was Horner, too, who was generally looked upon as an
"eligible" person, having a respectable position of his own in addition
to considerable expectations from his rich uncle, as I told you before.
I could see that Mrs Clyde encouraged him. He was always going there,
and frequently walking out with them also. I saw him, and it made my
heart bitter. One evening, I met him in full costume, with an opera-
glass slung round his shoulders, just before he reached their door. He
told me that Mrs Clyde had asked him to accompany her daughter and
herself to Covent Garden and shar