“Constance would wear velvet, if she could--or cloth-of-gold,” cried Tasie, with a little irritation. Her mother gave her a reproving glance. “There is a tone in your voice, Tasie, which is not kind.” “Oh yes; I know, mamma. But Constance is rather a trial. I know one ought not to show it. She looks as if one was not good enough to tie her shoes. And after all, she is no better than Frances; she is not half so nice as Frances; but I mean there can be no difference of position between sisters--one is just as good as the other; and Frances was so fond of coming here.” “Do you think Constance gives herself airs? Oh no, dear Tasie,” said Mrs Gaunt, “she is really not at all--when you come to know her. I am most fond of Frances myself. Frances has grown up among us, and we know all about her; that is what makes the difference. And Constance--is a little shy.” At this there was a cry from the family. “I don’t think she is shy,” said the old clergyman, whom Constance had insulted by walking out of church before the sermon. “Shy!” exclaimed Mrs Durant, “about as shy as----” But no simile occurred to her which was bold enough to meet the case. “It is better she should not be shy,” said Tasie. “You remember how she drove those people from the hotel to church. They have come ever since. They are quite afraid of her. Oh, there are some good things in her, some _very_ good things.” “We are the more hard to please, after knowing Frances,” repeated Mrs Gaunt. “But when a girl has been like that, used to the best society---- By the way, Mr Durant, you who know everything, are sure to know--Is she the Honourable? For my part I can’t quite make it out.” Mr Durant put on his spectacles to look at her, as if such a question passed the bounds of the permissible. He was very imposing when he looked at any one through those spectacles with an air of mingled astonishment and superiority. “Why should she be an Honourable?” he said. Mrs Gaunt felt as if she would like to sink into the abysses of the earth--that is, through the floor of the loggia, whatever might be the dreadful depths underneath. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said meekly. “I--I only thought--her mother being a--a titled person, a--a viscountess in her own right----” “But my _dear_ lady,” said Mr Durant, with a satisfaction in his superior knowledge which was almost unspeakable, “Lady Markham is _not_ a viscountess in her own right. Dear, no! She is not a viscountess at all. She is plain Mrs Waring, and nothing else, if right was right. Society only winks good-naturedly at her retaining the title, which she certainly, if there is any meaning in the peerage at all, forfeits by marrying a commoner.”