“Mamma,” said Frances, “you don’t want Constance--you would not let her--accept _that_?” “Accept what? My love, you must not be so emphatic. Accept a life full of luxury, splendour even, if she likes--and every care forestalled. My dear little girl, you don’t know anything about the world.” Frances pondered for some time before she replied. “Mamma,” she said again, “if such a case arose--you said that the best thing for me would have been to have liked--Mr Ramsay. There is no question of that. But if such a case arose----” “Yes, my dear”--Lady Markham took her daughter’s hand in her own, and looked at her with a smile of pleasure--“I hope it will some day. And what then?” “Would you--think the same about me? Would you consider the life full of luxury, as you said--would you desire for me the same thing as for Constance?” Lady Markham held the girl’s hand clasped in both of hers; the soft caressing atmosphere about her enveloped Frances. “My dear,” she said, “this is a very serious question. You are not asking me for curiosity alone?” “It is a very serious question,” Frances said. And the mother and daughter looked at each other closely, with more meaning, perhaps, than had as yet been in the eyes of either, notwithstanding all the excitement of interest in their first meeting. It was some time before another word was said. Frances saw in her mother a woman full of determination, very clear as to what she wanted, very unlikely to be turned from it by softer impulses, although outside she was so tender and soft; and Lady Markham saw in Frances a girl who was entirely submissive, yet immovable, whose dove’s eyes had a steady soft gaze, against which the kindred light of her own had no power. It was a mutual revelation. There was no conflict, nor appearance of conflict, between these two, so like each other--two gentle and soft-voiced women, both full of natural courtesy and disinclination to wound or offend; both seeing everything around them very clearly from her own, perhaps limited, point of view; and both feeling that between them nothing but the absolute truth would do. “You trouble me, Frances,” said Lady Markham at length. “When such a case arises, it will be time enough. In the abstract, I should of course feel for one as I feel for the other. Nay, stop a little. I should wish to provide for you, as for Constance, a life of assured comfort,--well, if you drive me to it--of wealth and all that wealth brings. Assuredly that is what I should wish.” She gave Frances’ hand a pressure which was almost painful, and then dropped it. “I hope you have no fancy for poverty theoretically, like your patron saint,” she added lightly, trying to escape from the gravity of the question by a laugh. “Mother,” said Frances, in a voice which was tremulous and yet steady, “I want to tell you--I think neither of poverty nor of money. I am more used, perhaps, to the one than the other. I will do what you wish in everything--everything else; but----”