“I came to ask, ma, whether I might dance with the youngest Mr. Crawley,” whispered the prettier and younger of the two.

“Good God, Jane, how can you think of such things?” replied the mamma indignantly. “Haven’t you repeatedly heard that his father has eight hundred a year, which dies with him? I am ashamed of you. Not on any account.”

“Ma,” whispered the other, who was much older than her sister, and very insipid and artificial, “Lord Mutanhed has been introduced to me. I said I thought I wasn’t engaged, ma.”