“Yes; yours was a love match. I declare, Mary, I often think that you are the happiest woman of whom I ever heard; to have it all to give, when you were so sure that you were loved while you yet had nothing.”
“Yes; I was sure,” and she wiped the sweet tears from her eyes, as she remembered a certain day when a certain youth had come to her, claiming all kinds of privileges in a very determined manner. She had been no heiress then. “Yes; I was sure. But now with you, dear, you can’t make yourself poor again. If you can trust no one—”
“I can. I can trust him. As regards that I do trust him altogether. But how can I tell that he would care for me?”
“Do you not know that he likes you?”
“Ah, yes; and so he does Lady Scatcherd.”
“Miss Dunstable!”
“And why not Lady Scatcherd, as well as me? We are of the same kind—come from the same class.”
“Not quite that, I think.”
“Yes, from the same class; only I have managed to poke myself up among dukes and duchesses, whereas she has been content to remain where God placed her. Where I beat her in art, she beats me in nature.”
“You know you are talking nonsense.”