“I do not pretend that I could, mother,” returned Perdita. “But am I to be your tool--your instrument--an automaton in your hands?--am I not to have an opinion in our councils?--or am I to pay blind obedience to you, even though I have reasons for questioning the prudence of your proceedings?” “And do you now question the prudence of my proceedings?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge, growing every moment more and more irritable. “Yes--I do!” answered Perdita, firmly and resolutely--at the same time fixing her brilliant eyes rebelliously upon her mother. “I admit that if we had only ensnared in our toils a simple commoner--a plain Charles Hatfield--with limited resources within his reach, it would have been advisable to form no lasting connexion with him. But now--_now_ that we are assured, beyond all possibility of doubt, that he is himself a nobleman and the heir to enormous wealth, it would be madness--it would be folly not to bind him to us by irrefragable chains. Why--here is a position to be obtained and ensured at once,--a position which will render us rich for the remainder of our days! And think you, mother, that I have not a little feeling of ambition in my soul? Would it not be a proud thing for you to be enabled to call the Vicountess Marston--and in due time the Countess of Ellingham--your daughter? All these considerations never flashed to my mind until immediately after Charles had quitted the room ere now: or I should have assuredly commenced the undoing of all that stupid work which, by your persuasion and so well tutored by you, I achieved in respect to the conditions whereon our connexion was to be based. What!” she cried, her eyes absolutely flashing fire: “have a coronet within my reach--and refuse it!--have a wealthy noble--or one who will be enormously wealthy--sighing at my feet, and not wed him! Mother,” she cried, actually exciting herself into a passion, “you must think me to be a fool--an idiot--a mad woman!” “I shall think you to be a fool--an idiot--and a mad woman if you persist in thwarting my plans or proceeding contrary to my advice,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, her tanned, weather-beaten countenance becoming absolutely livid with rage. “Ah! you have some sinister purpose to serve, mother!” cried Perdita, a sudden idea striking her: “else never would you oppose yourself so completely to the dictates of common sense. What were your words to me when I spoke to you--and spoke as rashly--about the inaccessibility of my soul to the passion of love? You advised me not to count only on the chance of making a good match: you declared it to be far more probable that I might ensnare some young gentleman of birth, family, and fortune--or some old voluptuary of immense wealth;--and you added that there was more to be gained as the mistress of one of those, than as a wife. In fine, your advice was that I should remain unmarried and independent, so that the moment I had ruined one lover, I might take another.”