LITMIR.BIZ

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she thought that most persons were dull, that she had not observed husbands to be companions—and that after all she was not going to accept Grandcourt.)

      “Why are you dull?”

      “This is a dreadful neighborhood. There is nothing to be done in it. That is why I practiced my archery.”

      (Pause, during which Gwendolen reflected that the life of an unmarried woman who could not go about and had no command of anything must necessarily be dull through all degrees of comparison as time went on.)

      “You have made yourself queen of it. I imagine you will carry the first prize.”

      “I don’t know that. I have great rivals. Did you not observe how well Miss Arrowpoint shot?”

      (Pause, wherein Gwendolen was thinking that men had been known to choose some one else than the woman they most admired, and recalled several experiences of that kind in novels.)

      “Miss Arrowpoint. No—that is, yes.”

      “Shall we go now and hear what the scoring says? Every one is going to the other end now—shall we join them? I think my uncle is looking toward me. He perhaps wants me.”

      Gwendolen found a relief for herself by thus changing the situation: not that the tete-à-tete was quite disagreeable to her; but while it lasted she apparently could not get rid of the unwonted flush in her cheeks and the sense of surprise which made her feel less mistress of herself than usual. And this Mr. Grandcourt, who seemed to feel his own importance more than he did hers—a sort of unreasonableness few of us can tolerate—must not take for granted that he was of great moment to her, or that because others speculated on him as a desirable match she held herself altogether at his beck. How Grandcourt had filled up the pauses will be more evident hereafter.

      “You have just missed the gold arrow, Gwendolen,” said Mr. Gascoigne. “Miss Juliet Fenn scores eight above you.”

      “I am very glad to hear it. I should have felt that I was making myself too disagreeable—taking the best of everything,” said Gwendolen, quite easily.

      It was impossible to be jealous of Juliet Fenn, a girl as middling as mid-day market in everything but her archery and plainness, in which last she was noticeable like her father: underhung and with receding brow resembling that of the more intelligent fishes. (Surely, considering the importance which is given to such an accident in female offspring, marriageable men, or what the new English calls “intending bridegrooms,” should look at themselves dispassionately in the glass, since their natural selection of a mate prettier than themselves is not certain to bar the effect of their own ugliness.)

      There was now a lively movement in the mingling groups, which carried the talk along with it. Every one spoke to every one else by turns, and Gwendolen, who chose to see what was going on around her now, observed that Grandcourt was having Klesmer presented to him by some one unknown to her—a middle-aged man, with dark, full face and fat hands, who seemed to be on the easiest terms with both, and presently led the way in joining the Arrowpoints, whose acquaintance had already been made by both him and Grandcourt. Who this stranger was she did not care much to know; but she wished to observe what was Grandcourt’s manner toward others than herself. Precisely the same: except that he did not look much at Miss Arrowpoint, but rather at Klesmer, who was speaking with animation—now stretching out his long fingers horizontally, now pointing downward with his fore-finger, now folding his arms and tossing his mane, while he addressed himself first to one and then to the other, including Grandcourt, who listened with an impassive face and narrow eyes, his left fore-finger in his waistcoat-pocket, and his right slightly touching his thin whisker.

      “I wonder which style Miss Arrowpoint admires most,” was a thought that glanced through Gwendolen’s mind, while her eyes and lips gathered rather a mocking expression. But she would not indulge her sense of amusement by watching, as if she were curious, and she gave all her animation to those immediately around her, determined not to care whether Mr. Grandcourt came near her again or not.

      He did come, however, and at a moment when he could propose to conduct Mrs. Davilow to her carriage, “Shall we meet again in the ball-room?” she said as he raised his hat at parting. The “yes” in reply had the usual slight drawl and perfect gravity.

      “You were wrong for once, Gwendolen,” said Mrs. Davilow, during their few minutes’ drive to the castle.

      “In what, mamma?”

      “About Mr. Grandcourt’s appearance and manners. You can’t find anything ridiculous in him.”

      “I suppose I could if I tried, but I don’t want to do it,” said Gwendolen, rather pettishly; and her mother was afraid to say more.

      It was the rule on these occasions for the ladies and gentlemen to dine apart, so that the dinner might make a time of comparative ease and rest for both. Indeed, the gentlemen had a set of archery stories about the epicurism of the ladies, who had somehow been reported to show a revolting masculine judgment in venison, even asking for the fat—a proof of the frightful rate at which corruption might go on in women, but for severe social restraint, and every year the amiable Lord Brackenshaw, who was something of a gourmet, mentioned Byron’s opinion that a woman should never be seen eating—introducing it with a confidential—“The fact is” as if he were for the first time admitting his concurrence in that sentiment of the refined poet.

      In the ladies’ dining-room it was evident that Gwendolen was not a general favorite with her own sex: there were no beginnings of intimacy between her and other girls, and in conversation they rather noticed what she said than spoke to her in free exchange. Perhaps it was that she was not much interested in them, and when left alone in their company had a sense of empty benches. Mrs. Vulcany once remarked that Miss Harleth was too fond of the gentlemen; but we know that she was not in the least fond of them—she was only fond of their homage—and women did not give her homage. The exception to this willing aloofness from her was Miss Arrowpoint, who often managed unostentatiously to be by her side, and talked to her with quiet friendliness.

      “She knows, as I do, that our friends are ready to quarrel over a husband for us,” thought Gwendolen, “and she is determined not to enter into the quarrel.”

      “I think Miss Arrowpoint has the best manners I ever saw,” said Mrs. Davilow, when she and Gwendolen were in a dressing-room with Mrs. Gascoigne and Anna, but at a distance where they could have their talk apart.

      “I wish I were like her,” said Gwendolen.

      “Why? Are you getting discontented with yourself, Gwen?”

      “No; but I am discontented with things. She seems contented.”

      “I am sure you ought to be satisfied to-day. You must have enjoyed the shooting. I saw you did.”

      “Oh, that is over now, and I don’t know what will come next,” said Gwendolen, stretching herself with a sort of moan and throwing up her arms. They were bare now; it was the fashion to dance in the archery dress, throwing off the jacket; and the simplicity of her white cashmere with its border of pale green set off her form to the utmost. A thin line of gold round her neck, and the gold star on her breast, were her only ornaments. Her smooth soft hair piled up into a grand crown made a clear line about her brow. Sir Joshua would have been glad to take her portrait; and he would have had an easier task than the historian at least in this, that he would not have had to represent the truth of change—only to give stability to one beautiful moment.

      “The dancing will come next,” said Mrs. Davilow “You are sure to enjoy that.”

      “I shall only dance in the quadrille. I told Mr. Clintock so. I shall not waltz or polk with any one.”

      “Why in the world do you say that all on a sudden?”

      “I can’t bear having ugly people so near me.”

      “Whom do you mean by ugly people?”

      “Oh, plenty.”

      “Mr.

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