Lucy, left to herself, gave a little sigh of relief.  She had been playing a part for the last twenty-four hours.  Her cordiality with Mr. Talboys naturally misled Eve and David, and perhaps a male reader or two.  Shall I give the clue?  It may be useful to you, young gentlemen.  Well, then, her sex are compounders.  Accustomed from childhood never to have anything entirely their own way, they are content to give and take; and, these terms once accepted, it is a point of honor and tact with them not to let a creature see the irksome part of the bargain is not as delicious as the other.  One coat of their own varnish goes over the smooth and the rough, the bitter and the sweet.

Now Lucy, besides being singularly polite and kind, was femme jusqu’ au bout des ongles. If her instincts had been reasons, and her vague thoughts could have been represented by anything so definite as words, the result might have appeared thus: 

“A few hours, and you can bore me no more, Mr. Talboys.  Now what must I do for you in return? Seem not to be bored to-day?  Mais c’est la moindre des choses.  Seem to be pleased with your society? Why not? it is only for an hour or two, and my seeming to like it will not prolong it.  My heart swells with happiness at the thought of escaping from you, good bore; you shall share my happiness, good bore.  It is so kind of you not to bore me to all eternity.”

This was why the last night she sat like Patience on an ottoman smiling on Talboys and racking David’s heart; and this was why she made the ride so pleasant to those she was at heart glad to leave, till they tried sentiment on, and then she was an eel directly, pony and all.

Lucy (sola).  “That is over.  Poor Mr. Talboys!  Does he fancy he has an attachment?  No; I please and I am courted wherever I go, but I have never been loved.  If a man loved me I should see it in his face, I should feel it without a word spoken.  Once or twice I fancied I saw it in one man’s eyes:  they seemed like a lion’s that turned to a dove’s as they looked at me.”  Lucy closed her own eyes and recalled her impression:  “It must have been fancy.  Ought I to wish to inspire such a passion as others have inspired?  No, for I could never return it.  The very language of passion in romances seems so extravagant to me, yet so beautiful.  It is hard I should not be loved, merely because I cannot love.  Many such natures have been adored.  I could not bear to die and not be loved as deeply as ever woman was loved.  I must be loved, adored and worshiped:  it would be so sweet—­sweet!” She slowly closed her eyes, and the long lovely lashes drooped, and a celestial smile parted her lips as she fell into a vague, delicious reverie.  Suddenly the carriage stopped at the foot of a hill.  She opened her eyes, and there stood David Dodd at the carriage window.

Lucy put her head out.  “Why, it is Mr. Dodd!  Oh, Mr. Dodd, is there anything the matter?”