"It do, really. What a beauty you are, Cora. I don't wonder at the fools going mad after you and toasting you--as may be a countess if you like." "Turn down here," said Cora abruptly. "I don't want to see Carboro'." "But he made me a sign, my dear; with his eyeglass, dear." "Let him make a hundred," cried Cora angrily. "He is not going to play with me. Why, he's hanging about after that chit of Denville's." "Tchah! Cora dear. I wouldn't be jealous of a washed-out doll of a thing like that. Half-starved paupers; and with the disgrace of that horrid murder sticking all over their house." "Jealous!" cried Cora, with a contemptuous laugh; "jealous of her! Not likely, mother; but I mean to make that old idiot smart if he thinks he is going to play fast and loose with me. Come along." Without noticing the approaching figure, she turned up the next street, veiling her beautiful eyes once more with their long lashes, and gliding over the pavement with her magnificent figure full of soft undulations that the grotesque fashion of the dress of the day could not hide. "Oh, Cora, my darling," said her mother, "how can you be so mad and obstinate!--throwing away your chances like that." "Chances? What do you mean?" cried the beauty. "Why, you know, my dear. He has never married yet; and he's so rich, and there's his title." "And are we so poor that we are to humble ourselves and beg because that man has a title?" "But it is such a title, Betsy," whispered the elder woman. "And he is so old, and withered, and gouty, and is obliged to drive himself out in a ridiculous donkey-chaise." "Now, what does that matter, dear?" "Not much to you, seemingly." "Now, my lovely, don't--don't. To think that I might live to see my gal, Betsy Dean, a real countess, and such a one as there ain't anywhere at court, and she flying in my face and turning her back upon her chances." "Mother, do you want to put me in a rage." "Not in the street, dear; but do--do--turn back!" "I shall not." "Then I know the reason why," cried the elder woman. "What do you mean?" "You're thinking of that nasty, poverty-stricken, brown-faced fiddler of a fellow, who hasn't even the decency to get himself shaved. I declare he looks more like a Jew than a Christian." "You mean to make me angry, mother." "I don't care if I do. There, I say it's a sin and a shame. A real Earl--a real live Lord as good as proposing to you, and you, you great silly soft goose, sighing and whining after a penniless pauper who won't even look at you. Oh! the fools gals are!" Cora Dean's lips were more scarlet than before, and her beautiful eyes flashed ominously, but she said nothing. "Going silly after a fellow like that, who's for ever hanging about after Denville's gal. Oh! I hav'n't patience." She said no more, for her daughter walked so fast that she became short of breath.