Mary had been taught to believe that her chances of future promotion were of the smallest; that nobody would ever talk of her, or think of her by-and-by when she in her turn would make her appearance in London society, and that it would be a very happy thing for her if she were so fortunate as to attract the attention of a fashionable physician, a Canon of Westminster or St.Paul's, or a barrister in good practice.
Mary turned up her pert little nose at this humdrum lot.
'I would much rather spend all my life among these dear hills than marry a nobody in London,' she said, fearless of that grand old lady at whose frown so many people shivered.

'If you don't think people will like me and admire me--a little--you had better save yourself the trouble of taking me to London.

I don't want to play second fiddle to my sister.' 'You are a very impertinent person, and deserve to be taken at your word,' replied my lady, scowling at her; 'but I have no doubt before you are twenty you will tell another story.' 'Oh!' said Mary, now just turned seventeen, 'then I am not to come out till I am twenty.' 'That will be soon enough,' answered the Countess.

'It will take you as long to get rid of those odious freckles.

And no doubt by that time Lesbia will have made a brilliant marriage.' And now on this rainy July morning these two girls, neither of whom had any serious employment for her life, or any serious purpose in living, wasted the hours, each in her own fashion.
Lesbia reclined upon a cushioned seat in the deep embrasure of a Tudor window, her _pose_ perfection--it was one of many such attitudes which Mademoiselle had taught her, and which by assiduous training had become a second nature.