If she were born a gentlewoman, then was she fit to match with any gentleman.

Let the most wealthy man in Europe pour all his wealth at her feet, she could, if so inclined, give him back at any rate more than that.
That offered at her feet she knew she would never tempt her to yield up the fortress of her heart, the guardianship of her soul, the possession of her mind; not that alone, nor that, even, as any possible slightest fraction of a make-weight.
If she were born a gentlewoman! And then came to her mind those curious questions; what makes a gentleman?
what makes a gentlewoman?
What is the inner reality, the spiritualised quintessence of that privilege in the world which men call rank, which forces the thousands and hundreds of thousands to bow down before the few elect?
What gives, or can give it, or should give it?
And she answered the question.

Absolute, intrinsic, acknowledged, individual merit must give it to its possessor, let him be whom, and what, and whence he might.

So far the spirit of democracy was strong with her.

Beyond this it could be had but by inheritance, received as it were second-hand, or twenty-second-hand.