No, Sybil Eglington was a woman who never had her chance.

Your husband's forbears were difficult, my dear.

They didn't exactly draw you out.
She needed drawing out; and her husband drove her back into her corner, where she sulked rather till she died--died alone at Wiesbaden, with a German doctor, a stray curate, and a stuttering maid to wish her bon voyage.

Yet I fancy she went glad enough, for she had no memories, not even an affaire to repent of, and to cherish.

La, la! she wasn't so stupid, Sybil there, and she was an ornament to her own sex and the despair of the other.