It is one of the blessed
hopes of the world to come, that there will be none such in it.
But why so many words? I say to myself, Will one of such as I
mean recognize his portrait in my sketch? Many such have I met in
my young days, and in my old days I find they swarm still. I
could wish that all such had to earn their own bread like Ann
Byron: had she been rich, she would have been unbearable. Women
like her, when they are well to do, walk with a manly stride,
make the tails of their dresses go like the screw of a steamer
behind them, and are not unfrequently Scotch.
As Mary went up, the music ceased; but, hoping Miss Byrom would
be able to enlighten her concerning its source, she continued her
ascent, and knocked at her door. A voice, rather wooden, yet not
without character, invited her to enter.
Ann sat near the window, for, although it was quite dusk, a
little use might yet be made of the lingering ghost of the
daylight. Almost all Mary could see of her was the reflection
from the round eyes of a pair of horn spectacles.
"How do you do, Miss Byrom?" she said.
"Not at all well," answered Ann, almost in a tone of offense.
"Is there nothing I can do for you?" asked Mary.
"We are to owe no man anything but love, the apostle tells us."
"You must owe a good deal of that, then," said Mary, one part
vexed, and two parts amused, "for you don't seem to pay much of
it.
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