desire. But that is not what I look at. She is such a very nice girl—no airs, no pretensions, though on a level with the first. I don’t mean with the titled aristocracy. I see very little good in people aiming out of their own sphere. I mean that Sophy is equal to the best in the town, and she is contented with that.”
“I have always thought her very agreeable,” said Rosamond.
“I look upon it as a reward for Ned, who never held his head too high, that he should have got into the very best connection,” continued Mrs Plymdale, her native sharpness softened by a fervid sense that she was taking a correct view. “And such particular people as the Tollers are, they might have objected because some of our friends are not theirs. It is well known that your aunt Bulstrode and I have been intimate from our youth, and Mr Plymdale has been always on Mr Bulstrode’s side. And I myself prefer serious opinions. But the Tollers have welcomed Ned all the same.”
“I am sure he is a very deserving, well-principled young man,” said Rosamond, with a neat air of patronage, in return for Mrs Plymdale’s wholesome corrections.
“Oh, he has not the style of a captain in the army, or that sort of carriage as if everybody was beneath him, or that showy kind of talking, and singing, and intellectual talent. But I am thankful he has not. It is a poor preparation both for here and Hereafter.”
“Oh dear, yes; appearances have very little to do with happiness,” said Rosamond. “I think there is every prospect of their being a happy couple. What house will they take?”
“Oh, as for that, they must put up with what they can get. They have been looking at the house in St Peter’s Place, next to Mr Hackbutt’s; it belongs to him, and he is putting it nicely in repair. I suppose they are not likely to hear of a better. Indeed, I think Ned will decide the matter to-day.”
“I should think it is a nice house; I like St Peter’s Place.”
“Well, it is near the Church, and a genteel situation. But the windows are narrow, and it is all ups and downs. You don’t happen to know of any other that would be at liberty?” said Mrs Plymdale, fixing her round black eyes on Rosamond with the animation of a sudden thought in them.
“Oh no; I hear so little of those things.”
Rosamond had not foreseen that question and answer in setting out to pay her visit; she had simply meant to gather any information which would help her to avert the parting with her own house under circumstances thoroughly disagreeable to her. As to the untruth in her reply, she no more reflected on it than she did on the untruth there was in her saying that appearances had very little to do with happiness. Her object, she was convinced, was thoroughly justifiable: it was Lydgate whose intention was inexcusable; and there was a plan in her mind which, when she had carried it out fully, would prove how very false a step it would have been for him to have descended from his position.
