There are some women
who seem fitted to occupy any station, however lofty. They need no
teaching; they are in no way bewildered by the novelty of wealth or
splendour; they make no errors. They possess an instinctive tact, which
all the teaching possible cannot always impart to others. They glide
naturally into their position; and, looking on them in their calm
dignity, their unstudied grace, it is difficult to believe they have
not been born in the purple.
Such a woman was Honoria, Lady Eversleigh. The novelty of her position
gave her no embarrassment; the splendour around her charmed and
delighted her sense of the beautiful, but it caused her no
bewilderment; it did not dazzle her unaccustomed eyes. She received her
husband's nephew with the friendly, yet dignified, bearing which it was
fitting Sir Oswald's wife should display towards his kinsman; and the
scrutinizing eyes of the young man sought in vain to detect some secret
hidden beneath that placid and patrician exterior.
"The woman is a mystery," he thought; "one would think she were some
princess in disguise. Does she really love my uncle, I wonder? She acts
her part well, if it is a false one. But, then, who would not act a
part for such a prize as she is likely to win? I wish Victor were here.
He, perhaps, might be able to penetrate the secret of her existence.
She is a hypocrite, no doubt; and an accomplished one.
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