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Poor Belle is still single, still buried in the damp
parsonage, where she paints plates and teacups, and wears out my old
gowns, just as she is wearing out her own life, poor creature!'
'The idea of any one wanting to marry Mr. Smithson,' said Lesbia. 'It
seems too dreadful.'
'A case of real destitution, you think. Wait till you have seen
Smithson's house in Park Lane--his team, his yacht, his orchid houses in
Berkshire.'
Lesbia sighed. Her knowledge of London society was only seven weeks old;
and yet already the day of disenchantment had begun! She was having her
eyes opened to the stern realities of life. A year ago when her
appearance in the great world was still only a dream of the future, she
had pictured to herself the crowd of suitors who would come to woo, and
she had resolved to choose the worthiest.
What would he be like, that worthiest among the wooers, that King Arthur
among her knights?
First and foremost, he would be of rank higher than her own--duke, a
marquis, or one of the first and oldest among earls.


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