When she found herself alone with the Duchess, she told her her tale of woe and injury. “Now what can I do? What shall I do? I am ready to confess that last night Mr. Delville did seem inclined to make love, though just when I thought it was really coming, he turned the conversation, and talked about my child. However, I am not at this moment so indignant as I was yesterday, when I thought the suspicion ridiculous and insulting. I am ready to do any thing that shall be calculated to prevent him, or any one else, flirting with me; but what have I done, or said, to encourage them?” “It is very odd that last year, though you were as pretty as you are now, you had no difficulty of this kind, had you?” “No, none at all. I went out a great deal, but no one paid me particular attention; and I did not feel afraid of any constructions put upon this thing and that thing; and yet I am sure I was not half so attentive to appearances, and did not think half as much about them.” “I should think, then, there must be some change in yourself.” “Yes; that there is! I thought my husband loved me then, and my study was to please him.” “That is the thing! Men have such tact in finding out when a woman is discontented at home.” “And how can I be contented? That does not depend upon me.” “Not exactly. But do you not think that from having been mortified at home, perhaps you have sought for gratification to your vanity abroad, that you have wished to be reassured concerning your own attractions?” “Why, perhaps I may. It is so mortifying, you know, to be married to a man old enough to be one’s father, and then that he should neglect and despise one. I just did want to ascertain that the fault was not in me, but that it was all owing to his bad taste. Oh dear! why was I dazzled with rank and fashion, polished manners, and good breeding. I was at the play the other night, and I was so struck with those lines of Anne Boleyn’s, that I came home and learned them by heart. I swear ’tis better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perked up in a glistering grief And wear a golden sorrow. If I had but married an honest, true-hearted man, with ardent affections—one to whom I had been all the world, as he would have been to me—I could have buffeted cheerily through the storms of life, hand in hand with him.” “And how many of your acquaintance are blessed with the fate (which I grant you is the happiest in the world) for which you so frequently sigh?” “You are.”