She could not say she had conquered her world while he was
unsubdued. Yet how was it? She asked herself that question a hundred
times each day. She was no coquette, no flirt, yet she knew she had but
to smile on a man to bring him at once to her feet; she had but to make
the most trifling advance, and she could do what she would. The Duke of
Mornton had twice repeated his offer of marriage--she had refused him.
The Marquis of Langland, the great match of the day, had made her an
offer, which she had declined. The Italian Prince Cetti would have given
his possessions to take her back with him to his own sunny land, but she
had refused to go. No woman in England had had better offers of
marriage; but she had refused them all. How was it that, when others
sighed so deeply and vainly at her feet, Lord Arleigh alone stood aloof?
Of what use were her beauty, wit, grace, wealth, and talent, if she
could not win him? For the first time she became solicitous about her
beauty, comparing it with that of other women, always being compelled,
in the end, to own that she excelled. If Lord Arleigh talked, or danced,
or showed attention to any lady, she would critically examine her claim
to interest, whether she was beautiful, mentally gifted, graceful.
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