“My darling, you are too humble--not that I wish you different, Sophy. I like to see that my child is the only one that is unconscious of her own merits. But Love sees further. Dear fellow! Oh, what a happiness for me, my pet, to think, if anything happened to me, that I could leave you in such good hands!” “But oh, auntie, _him_! I thought it was Diana he would care for----” “Diana, Sophy? My dear, Diana is very handsome--for her age: but she is not like you. You know how fond I am of Diana; but gentlemen don’t care for such clever women. They like some one to look up to them, not a person who is always standing on her opinion. No, my darling, Diana will never attract a man of fine feeling like dear Mr. Pandolfini. It is not just an equal he wants. He wants a clinging, sweet, dependent creature. And then youth, my pet, youth! that always carries the day.” “But oh, auntie, fancy any one being with Diana, and preferring poor little _me_!” What more natural than that a flutter of gratified vanity should thrill through the girl! Mrs. Norton shared it to the fullest extent. She said, “I never expected anything else. Though I don’t set up for being clever, I know the world, and I know _gentlemen_. It is not talent that is necessary for that--you know I don’t pretend to talent--but experience, and perhaps a little insight. Oh yes, I know what may be looked for. I know what gentlemen are; and you may take my word for it, Sophy, a woman of Diana’s age has no chance--especially when they look their years as dear Diana does fully, whatever your partiality may say.” “She _will_ dress in such an old-fashioned way. I have spoken to her about it so often, and she never pays any attention. But oh, auntie! what will Diana say?” “I don’t know what she can say, dear, but congratulations. Dear Diana, she will be so glad of your good fortune. She always is so generous. She will be sure to want to help with your _trousseau_; and it is evidently such a pleasure to her that one never knows how to refuse.” “Oh!” cried Sophy, hiding her face, “it is too soon surely, surely, to think of anything of the kind. A _trousseau_, auntie! it scarcely seems--proper,--it scarcely seems--delicate.” “My darling, you are so sensitive!” said Mrs. Norton, taking her child once more into her close embrace.