If Helena Pitstone were really like
that--"How can she ever put up with me? She'll just despise me. It will
be only natural. And then if things go wrong, Lord Buntingford will find
out I'm no good--and I shall have to go!"
She gave a long sigh, lifting her eyes a little--against her will--to the
reflection of herself in an old mirror hanging beside the Romney. What a
poor little insignificant figure--beside the other! No, she had no
confidence in herself--none at all--she never had had. The people she had
lived with had indeed generally been fond of her. It was because she made
herself useful to them. Old Mrs. Browne had professed affection for
her,--till she gave notice. She turned with a shiver from the
recollection of an odious scene.
She went bade to the drawing-room and thence to the library, looking
wistfully, as she passed through it, at the pleasant hall, with its old
furniture, and its mellowed comfort. She would like to find a home here,
if only they would put up with her. For she was very homeless.
As compared with the drawing-room, the library had been evidently lived
in.
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