The sisters then descended the stairs. As they passed through the hall, they might have observed the presence of a young man, not in livery, plainly dressed, having an appearance of _mauvaise honte_ not often imputable to the denizens of London. They might have noticed that after the first glimpse he caught of Mildred, his gaze was rivetted upon her face, and the colour deepened in his cheeks as she approached and swept by him, almost brushing him with the trimming of her mantle. But in fact, they saw nothing of the kind, passing along in polite indifference to Mrs. Winston's carriage. "And so, Mildred," that lady said, as they drove away, "another admirer! You are growing quite a coquette." "Not exactly," answered the younger sister. "But I like to amuse myself with the vanity of men. After all, I wish I were married." Mrs. Winston sighed. "At another time, Mildred dear," she said, "I might rally you for the avowal. But beware. Marriage is a sad lottery." "You are happy, Gertrude," said Mildred with some surprise. Mrs. Winston looked out of her window. "Melcomb will never make a woman happy," she said, after a pause. "He will certainly never make me happy," exclaimed Mildred, half laughing. "But really, Gertrude, how silly I am! What does Mr. Melcomb care about me!" "Very little, I dare say, not to flatter you, dear. Very little about Mildred: a good deal about Mildred's money. And perhaps mamma would not care to add Tolpeden to Pendarrel. You know they join. There's something for your cogitation." For a while the sisters were silent. Then the younger spoke. "Dearest Gertrude," she said, "believe me I will never marry without--believe me, I have not yet seen anyone whom I would marry. When I spoke just now, I hardly knew what I meant." Poor Gertrude knew her sister's meaning perfectly well. She recollected the weight of the chain from which she had recklessly made her escape, without calculating the cost. "Mildred," said she, "let me ever be your confidante as now." And so in a less serious mood, the sisters pursued their way round the November dreariness of Hyde Park, at the season when:-- "Remote, unfriended, solitary, slow, Scarce one lone horseman paces Rotten Row."