“One day will serve for all, uncle; they were exactly alike. My mornings were all my own. If my masters came, I studied, or I dismissed them as I pleased; if I felt indisposed to read, I sung; if I did not like music, I drew; if I did not care for drawing landscape, I caricatured my master, and made a doggrel poem on his indignation. In a word, I trifled over the day till luncheon. After that I rode in the woods, alone if I could, sometimes with Sir Within; often I had time to do both. Then came dressing--a long affair--for I was expected to be fine enough for company each day, though we saw no one. After that, most wearisome of all the day, came dinner--two hours and a half---services of which we never ate; wines we did not care to drink, but all repeated regularly; a solemn mock banquet, my guardian--so I called him--loved immensely, and would have prolonged, if he but knew how, till midnight. Evening brought our one guest, a French Abbé, with whom I sung or played chess till I could engage Sir Within and himself in a discussion about Mirabeau or St. Just, when I would slip away and be free. Then, if the night were moonlit, I would drive out in the Park, or have a row on the Lake; if dark, I would have the conservatory lighted, set the fountains a playing, and drive the gardener distracted by ‘awakening’ all his drowsy plants. In a word, I could do what I pleased, and I pleased to do whatever struck me at the moment. I ordered all that I liked from Town--books, dress, objects of art, prints--and was just as weary of them all before I saw them as after they had palled upon me. It was a life of intense indulgence, and I’m not sure, if one could but fight off occasional ennui, that it wasn’t the happiest thing could be made of existence, for it was very dreamy withal, very full of innumerable futures, all rose-coloured, all beautiful.” “And what are you to make of this?” asked Luttrell, almost sternly, as he moved his arm around to indicate the new realm about her. “Here there is no luxury, no wealth, none of the refinement that comes of wealth, not one of the resources that fill the time of cultivated leisure; all is hardship, privation, self-denial. Go abroad, too, beyond the walls of this poor old ruin, and it will be to witness misery and destitution greater still.” “I am going to try if I shall not like the real conflict better than the mock combat,” said she, calmly.