'What can she think I am going to do!' On her table at home lay, a letter from Mr.Warwick.She read it hastily in the presence of Arthur Rhodes, having at a glance at the handwriting anticipated the proposal it contained and the official phrasing.
Her gallant squire was invited to dine with her that evening, costume excused.
They conversed of Literature as a profession, of poets dead and living, of politics, which he abhorred and shied at, and of his prospects.

He wrote many rejected pages, enjoyed an income of eighty pounds per annum, and eked out a subsistence upon the modest sum his pen procured him; a sum extremely insignificant; but great Nature was his own, the world was tributary to him, the future his bejewelled and expectant bride.

Diana envied his youthfulness.

Nothing is more enviable, nothing richer to the mind, than the aspect of a cheerful poverty.

How much nobler it was, contrasted with Redworth's amassing of wealth! When alone, she went to her bedroom and tried to write, tried to sleep.
Mr.Warwick's letter was looked at.