"Do you happen to remember that my pension dies with me Lady Cecil," she demanded angrily, "and that I have only a wretched pittance and a collection of obsolete Indian trumpery to leave you? So long as I live you will be able to keep afloat somehow in society; but I should like to know what will become of you when I am gone? You turn up your nose at my managing ways; but it is only by management that I have contrived to keep my head above water, and have my own carriage to ride in, and my own maid to travel with me. As for you, you are no more of a manager than one of those Indian idols; and a landlady who wouldn't dare to take half a glass of wine out of the cellaret or a spoonful of tea out of the caddy while I am alive, would pilfer you out of house and home before I'd been in my grave a month. It's all very well to talk about not wishing to marry, and being happy alone with your books and piano, and so forth; but you're not the stuff old maids are made of, Lady Cecil. The girls of the present day are not brought up to make old maids. They are like the houses that the cheap builders run up, that are made to sell, and not to last. The girls of the present day are delightful creatures, but they are brought up to marry rich men and live in fine houses, and be imposed upon by their servants. I pity the children of the rising generation, for they will have no maiden aunts to spoil them." Mrs. MacClaverhouse had been shrewd enough to perceive the impression made on Mr. O'Boyneville by her niece's attractions. She knew that the barrister was rich--and, indeed, had sounded Mr. Crawford as to his probable income, which was of course exaggerated by the painter, who accepted the popular report of the lawyer's gains without that grain of salt with which all such reports should be taken. On questioning Cecil very closely respecting Mr. O'Boyneville's call, the dowager had speedily perceived that something special had distinguished it from common visits. "He asked my permission to call," said Mrs. MacClaverhouse; "and he said quite enough to convince me that he had fallen over head and ears in love with you. It's my opinion he came to make you an offer of marriage; and that's why I kept out of the way. But, bless my heart and soul! I needn't have taken the trouble--for of course you refused him; though I am told his income is little short of four thousand a-year. You are bent upon dying a homeless pauper, and all I hope is that they'll have improved the casual wards of the unions before your time." Cecil tried to parry Mrs. MacClaverhouse's attack, but the elder lady was past mistress of the polite art of conversational fencing, and she did not abandon the assault until her niece had unwillingly confessed the secret of Mr. O'Boyneville's visit.