“The thing is so different. All unmarried women are necessarily in the market; but if they behave themselves properly they make no signs. Now there was Griselda Grantly; of course she intended to get herself a husband, and a very grand one she has got; but she always looked as though butter would not melt in her mouth. It would have been very wrong to call her a marrying girl.” “Oh, of course she was,” says Mrs. Gresham, with that sort of acrimony which one pretty young woman so frequently expresses with reference to another. “But if one could always tell of a woman, as you say you can of a man, I should be able to tell of you. Now, I wonder whether you are a marrying woman? I have never been able to make up my mind yet.” Miss Dunstable remained silent for a few moments, as though she were at first minded to take the question as being, in some sort, one made in earnest; but then she attempted to laugh it off. “Well, I wonder at that,” said she, “as it was only the other day I told you how many offers I had refused.” “Yes; but you did not tell me whether any had been made that you meant to accept.” “None such was ever made to me. Talking of that, I shall never forget your cousin, the Honourable George.” “He is not my cousin.” “Well, your husband’s. It would not be fair to show a man’s letters; but I should like to show you his.” “You are determined, then, to remain single?” “I didn’t say that. But why do you cross-question me so?” “Because I think so much about you. I am afraid that you will become so afraid of men’s motives as to doubt that any one can be honest. And yet sometimes I think you would be a happier woman and a better woman, if you were married.” “To such an one as the Honourable George, for instance?” “No, not to such an one as him; you have probably picked out the worst.” “Or to Mr. Sowerby?” “Well, no; not to Mr. Sowerby, either. I would not have you marry any man that looked to you for your money principally.” “And how is it possible that I should expect any one to look to me principally for anything else? You don’t see my difficulty, my dear? If I had only five hundred a year, I might come across some decent middle-aged personage, like myself, who would like me, myself, pretty well, and would like my little income—pretty well also. He would not tell me any violent lie, and perhaps no lie at all. I should take to him in the same sort of way, and we might do very well. But, as it is, how is it possible that any disinterested person should learn to like me? How could such a man set about it? If a sheep have two heads, is not the fact of the two heads the first and, indeed, only thing which the world regards in that sheep? Must it not be so as a matter of course? I am a sheep with two heads. All this money which my father put together, and which has been growing since like grass under May showers, has turned me into an abortion. I am not the giantess eight feet high, or the dwarf that stands in the man’s hand,—”