“Indeed! are you leaving home?” said Miss Duncan. “Yes, we are going to martyrdom,” replied Dora. “We are going to town for the season,” said Isabel, in answer to Hilary’s look of inquiry. “We always do, of course; it is expected of people in our rank, you know; Dora pretends she does not like it, but she does really; and if she did not, one must make some sacrifices for duty.” “Going to London for the season――that means going to be very gay, does it not?” said Sybil. “Oh, yes, Sybil,” cried Dora, “it means turning night into day, and spending it in hot crowds, for whom one does not care the least portion of an atom; and employing all one’s energies, faculties, and time in dressing, dancing, or sleeping――oh dear!” “Don’t be foolish, Dora; nobody likes company, or pretty clothes, better than you,” said Isabel. “That is the worst of it; I like them against my conscience, and every time I buy some extravagant ornament, I suffer from remorse; and yet am just as weak at the next temptation. I wish I could say I really hated it all. Do you know, Hilary, I envy you for staying here so quietly in the country, and being able to dress plainly and do good, while I am only able to wish to do either.” “I am afraid you would feel rather awkward, Dora, either with my wardrobe or my occupations. Our duties are so different; yours, you know, is to go with your father to London, to dress elegantly, and look pretty.” “That is just what I despise myself for, Hilary――my perfect uselessness, and life of gaudy show. I never leave you without wishing I were situated like you. Not too grand to be useful――living in a small house, instead of those fatiguing large rooms, which tire one to walk across; having a garden one could love and care for, instead of being merely allowed to look at papa’s gardener’s plants and shrubs; having to do things myself, instead of being always waited on; and oh, above all, having learned to despise the pomps and vanities of life, instead of all the time loving them in my heart, and feeling them necessary to my comfort.” “She is only talking nonsense, Hilary,” interposed Isabel; “she is seized with these fits of despondency about her own rank in life, every now and then, and fancies we are all wrong, for living according to what is expected of us in society. I am happy to say, however, she acts on principles of common sense, and her democratic theories of equality and universal brotherhood are confined to theory entirely.” “It is not right,” said Dora, thoughtfully shaking her head; “it can not be right; but I do not know what is wrong, and when I begin to think, I am involved in a labyrinth of doubt. To be admired, courted, and caressed, can not be the right aim of life, and yet I am sure it is mine. Now, is not that absolutely contemptible, Hilary, to live for such objects?”