possible on the death of her
step-father Captain Davilow, who had for the last nine years joined his family
only in a brief and fitful manner, enough to reconcile them to his long
absences; but she cared much more for the fact than for the explanation. All her
prospects had become more agreeable in consequence. She had disliked their
former way of life, roving from one foreign watering-place or Parisian apartment
to another, always feeling new antipathies to new suites of hired furniture, and
meeting new people under conditions which made her appear of little importance;
and the variation of having passed two years at a showy school, where on all
occasions of display she had been put foremost, had only deepened her sense that
so exceptional a person as herself could hardly remain in ordinary circumstances
or in a social position less than advantageous. Any fear of this latter evil was
banished now that her mamma was to have an establishment; for on the point of
birth Gwendolen was quite easy. She had no notion how her maternal grandfather
got the fortune inherited by his two daughters; but he had been a West Indian -
which seemed to exclude further question; and she knew that her father's family
was so high as to take no notice of her mamma, who nevertheless preserved with
much pride the miniature of a Lady Molly in that connection. She would probably
have known much more about her father but for a little incident which happened
when she was twelve years old. Mrs. Davilow had brought out, as she did only at
wide intervals, various memorials of her first husband, and while showing his
miniature to Gwendolen recalled with a fervour which seemed to count on a
peculiar filial sympathy, the fact that dear papa had died when his little
daughter was in long clothes. Gwendolen, immediately thinking of the unlovable
step-father whom she had been acquainted with the greater part of her life while
her frocks were short, said -
    »Why did you marry again, mamma? It would have been nicer if you had not.«
    Mrs. Davilow coloured deeply, a slight convulsive movement passed over her
face, and straightway shutting up the memorials she said, with a violence quite
unusual in her -
    »You have no feeling, child!«
    Gwendolen, who was fond of her mamma, felt hurt and ashamed, and had never
since dared to ask a question about her father.
    This was not the only instance in which she had brought on herself the pain
of some filial compunction. It was always arranged, when possible, that she
should have a small bed in her mamma's