“Do you think it is shocking to care for money?” she said. “N-no,” said Edgar, “not for some people. I might, without any derogation; but for a lady---- You must remember I don’t know anything about the world.” “No,” said Gussy, “of course you don’t; but a lady wants money as much as a man. We girls are dreadfully hampered sometimes, and can’t do what we please because of money. The boys go and spend, but we can’t. It is a little hard. You should hear Helena on that. I don’t mind myself, for I can always manage somehow; but Helena gives all sort of subscriptions, and likes to buy books and things; and then she has to keep it off her dress. Papa gives us as much as he can afford, so we have nothing to complain of; for, fancy five girls! and all to be provided for afterwards. Of course, we can’t go into professions like the boys. I don’t want to change the laws, as Helena does, because I don’t see how it is to be done; so then the only thing that remains is to wish for heaps of money--quantities of money; and then everybody could get on.” Edgar was very glad to retire into an _entrée_ while this curious statement of difficulties was being made. It seemed so strange to him, with all his own wealth, to hear any of his friends wish for money without offering his purse. Had Gussy been Gus, he would have said--“I have plenty; take some of mine,” with all the ready goodfellowship of youth. But he dared not say anything of the kind to the young lady. He dared not even suggest that it was possible: this wonderful difference was beyond all aid of legislation. Accordingly, he was silent, and ate his dinner, and was no longer the agreeable companion Gussy expected him to be. She did not like her powers of conversation to be thus practically undervalued, nor was she content, as her sister Helena would have been, with the feeling that she had made him think. Gussy liked an immediate return. She liked to make her interlocutors, not think, but listen, and laugh, and respond, giving her swift repayment for her trouble. She gave her curls another shake, and changed the subject, having long ere this got done with her soup. “I have not half finished my _carte du pays_,” she resumed; “don’t you want to hear about the other people, or have you had enough of Thorne? I feel sure you must be thinking about your new friends. If I ride over to see Clare the day after your dinner, will you tell me all about the Pimpernels? I do so want to have a credible account of them, and the Lesser Celandine, and all----” “Who is the Lesser Celandine?” “Oh, please, do not look so grave, as if you could eat me. I believe you are a little like Clare after all. Of course it is the pretty daughter: they say she is just like it; peeps from behind her leaves--I mean her mamma--and never says a word. Don’t you think all girls should do so? Now, confess, Mr. Arden. I am sure that is what you think, if you would allow yourself to speak.”