“Vulgar,” Sophy had called Mr. Chepstow. Strange perversion, that she should be so sharp to perceive the outward deficiencies in speech or manner of the honest, good-hearted millionaire, and yet be so utterly blind to the far more repulsive vulgarity of her own speech and behaviour. Sophy did not answer. Marion began to fear she had really offended her, when looking up she saw that the girl’s face, though grave, bore by no means an angry expression. “Miss Freer,” she said at last, “I think I deserve what you say. I have got into reckless, careless sort of way of going on. To tell you the truth, I am not very happy at home, and so long as I can get something to amuse me; riding or driving, or making fun of people, it does not much matter which, I fear I think very little about how I get it. Frank is the only person who cares about me at all, and even he gives me credit for very little good. One thing I will promise you, and that is, to leave of making fun of poor old Chepstow, so long, at all events, as I continue to use his horses. There now, Miss Freer, isn’t it true that I am good-tempered?” “Yes, indeed it is,” said Marion heartily. “And even more amiable than you think,” Sophy went on; “I don’t believe any other girl with a favourite brother would have tried to make friends with a girl that same brother is always praising up to the skies, and holding up as an example sister to follow! You will let me make friends with you, Miss Freer, won’t you?” “Don’t you think I have done so already?” asked Marion. “I assure you I wonder at myself for speaking so plainly as I did. I could not have done so to a person I had not a friendly feeling for.” “Thank you,” said Sophy, “that is a very pretty way of taking out the sting of your very decided home-thrust.” And then, girl-like, they rambled on to other subjects. The excursion to Berlet, in which the Berwicks were to join, the balls Sophy was anticipating, and some few allusions to the home-troubles she had hinted at. Her father’s irritability, her mother’s overweening partiality for Blanche, Blanche herself, with her everlasting ailments: “And yet with all, I think I could be very fond of her if she would let me,” said Sophy “she is really sensible and satisfactory when she chooses; and long ago, Miss Freer, she was so pretty.” “So I have heard,” said Marion, not however encouraging further revelations of Sophy’s home secrets. The girl was really not without many good qualities. Wanting in delicacy no doubt, far too self-confident and pronouçée; but affectionate, and open to good impressions. And above all thoroughly honest and true. This was the reason of the liking Marion felt for her. This was why she so much preferred Sophy, rough, and even in a sense unrefined, to the graceful, faultlessly lady-like Florence.