"I suppose, my dear," said the Dowager, with an assumption of friendly interest that was even more terrible to behold than the coldness of her wrath, "I can only suppose, from what I could not help observing at table this evening, that you are soon to be a subject of congratulations."
"Of course, I shouldn't think of forcing your confidence, but when an engagement is unannounced there's a degree of uncertainty."
"Oh, but I think you're mistaken," said Miss Fitzgerald, lifting her liquid blue eyes to the Dowager's face, with an expression of innocence, which was the perfection of art. "I'm much too young to think of such things—besides, who'd have me, with no dower except my beauty, such as it is, which, as your Ladyship knows, is not lasting."
The Marchioness fairly snorted with rage. She had been a Court belle in her time.
"Some country parson, perhaps," continued Miss Fitzgerald reflectively; "but then I fear I should not make a good parson's wife."
"I should doubt it," assented the Dowager with asperity.
"No millionaires would think of me for a moment."
"I did not know there were any such here."
"What, not Mr. Stanley?"