"My dear aunt," she had said once during the last winter,
"I am going to the meet with George,"--George was her cousin, Lord
Baldock, and was the dragon's son,--"and there, let there be an end
of it." "And you will promise me that you will not go further," said
the dragon. "I will promise nothing to-day to any man or to any
woman," said Violet. What was to be said to a young lady who spoke in
this way, and who had become of age only a fortnight since? She rode
that day the famous run from Bagnall's Gorse to Foulsham Common, and
was in at the death.
Violet Effingham was now sitting in conference with her friend Lady
Laura, and they were discussing matters of high import,--of very high
import, indeed,--to the interests of both of them. "I do not ask you
to accept him," said Lady Laura.
"That is lucky," said the other, "as he has never asked me."
"He has done much the same. You know that he loves you."
"I know,--or fancy that I know,--that so many men love me! But, after
all, what sort of love is it? It is just as when you and I, when we
see something nice in a shop, call it a dear duck of a thing, and
tell somebody to go and buy it, let the price be ever so extravagant.
I know my own position, Laura. I'm a dear duck of a thing."
"You are a very dear thing to Oswald.
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