She was one of the small ones of the earth; she had not been born to honours; she knew the world too well to nourish fatuous illusions on the article of her own place in it.

She had encountered many of the fortunate few and was perfectly aware of those points at which their fortune differed from hers.

But if by her informed measure she was no figure for a high scene, she had yet to Isabel's imagination a sort of greatness.

To be so cultivated and civilised, so wise and so easy, and still make so light of it--that was really to be a great lady, especially when one so carried and presented one's self.

It was as if somehow she had all society under contribution, and all the arts and graces it practised--or was the effect rather that of charming uses found for her, even from a distance, subtle service rendered by her to a clamorous world wherever she might be?
After breakfast she wrote a succession of letters, as those arriving for her appeared innumerable: her correspondence was a source of surprise to Isabel when they sometimes walked together to the village post-office to deposit Madame Merle's offering to the mail.