What was to be said to a young lady who spoke in this way, and who had become of age only a fortnight since?
She rode that day the famous run from Bagnall's Gorse to Foulsham Common, and was in at the death.
Violet Effingham was now sitting in conference with her friend Lady Laura, and they were discussing matters of high import,--of very high import, indeed,--to the interests of both of them.

"I do not ask you to accept him," said Lady Laura.
"That is lucky," said the other, "as he has never asked me." "He has done much the same.

You know that he loves you." "I know,--or fancy that I know,--that so many men love me! But, after all, what sort of love is it?
It is just as when you and I, when we see something nice in a shop, call it a dear duck of a thing, and tell somebody to go and buy it, let the price be ever so extravagant.
I know my own position, Laura.

I'm a dear duck of a thing." "You are a very dear thing to Oswald." "But you, Laura, will some day inspire a grand passion,--or I daresay have already, for you are a great deal too close to tell;--and then there will be cutting of throats, and a mighty hubbub, and a real tragedy.

I shall never go beyond genteel comedy,--unless I run away with somebody beneath me, or do something awfully improper." "Don't do that, dear." "I should like to, because of my aunt.