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102 Chapter 7: Object-Oriented Design
Chapter 7: Object-Oriented Design Lab Exercises
Topics Lab Exercises
Parameter Passing Changing People
Interfaces Using the Comparable Interface
Method Decomposition A Modified MiniQuiz Class
Overloading A Flexible Account Class
A Biased Coin
Static Variables and Methods Opening and Closing Accounts
Counting Transactions
Transfering Funds
Overall class design Random Walks
GUI Layouts Telephone Keypad

Chapter 7: Object-Oriented Design 103
Changing People
The file ChangingPeople.java contains a program that illustrates parameter passing. The program uses Person objects
defined in the file Person.java. Do the following:
1. Trace the execution of the program using diagrams similar to those in Figure 6.5 of the text (which is a trace of the
program in Listings 6.15–6.17). Also show what is printed by the program.
2. Compile and run the program to see if your trace was correct.
3. Modify the changePeople method so that it does what the documentation says it does, that is, the two Person objects
passed in as actual parameters are actually changed.
// ******************************************************************
// ChangingPeople.java
//
// Demonstrates parameter passing -- contains a method that should
// change to Person objects.
// ******************************************************************
public class ChangingPeople
{
// ---------------------------------------------------------
// Sets up two person objects, one integer, and one String
// object. These are sent to a method that should make
// some changes.
// ---------------------------------------------------------
public static void main (String[] args)
{
Person person1 = new Person ("Sally", 13);
Person person2 = new Person ("Sam", 15);
int age = 21;
String name = "Jill";
System.out.println ("nParameter Passing... Original values...");
System.out.println ("person1: " + person1);
System.out.println ("age: " + age + "tname: " + name + "n");
changePeople (person1, person2, age, name);
System.out.println ("nValues after calling changePeople...");
}
// -------------------------------------------------------------------
// Change the first actual parameter to "Jack - Age 101" and change
// the second actual parameter to be a person with the age and
// name given in the third and fourth parameters.
// -------------------------------------------------------------------
public static void changePeople (Person p1, Person p2, int age, String name)
{
System.out.println ("nInside changePeople... Original parameters...");
System.out.println ("person1: " + p1);

// Make changes
Person p3 = new Person (name, age);
p2 = p3;
name = "Jack";
age = 101;
p1.changeName (name);
p1.changeAge (age);
// Print changes
System.out.println ("nInside changePeople... Changed values...");
}
}
// ************************************************************
// Person.java
//
// A simple class representing a person.
// ************************************************************
public class Person
{
private String name;
private int age;
// ----------------------------------------------------------
// Sets up a Person object with the given name and age.
// ----------------------------------------------------------
public Person (String name, int age)
{
this.name = name;
this.age = age;
}
// ----------------------------------------------------------
// Changes the name of the Person to the parameter newName.
// ----------------------------------------------------------
public void changeName(String newName)
{
name = newName;
}
// ----------------------------------------------------------
// Changes the age of the Person to the parameter newAge.
// ----------------------------------------------------------
public void changeAge (int newAge)
{
age = newAge;
}
// ----------------------------------------------------------
// Returns the person's name and age as a string.
// ----------------------------------------------------------
public String toString()
{
return name + " - Age " + age;
}
}

Using the Comparable Interface
1. Write a class Compare3 that provides a static method largest. Method largest should take three Comparable parameters
and return the largest of the three (so its return type will also be Comparable). Recall that method compareTo is part of
the Comparable interface, so largest can use the compareTo method of its parameters to compare them.
2. Write a class Comparisons whose main method tests your largest method above.
• First prompt the user for and read in three strings, use your largest method to find the largest of the three strings, and
print it out. (It’s easiest to put the call to largest directly in the call to println.) Note that since largest is a static
method, you will call it through its class name, e.g., Compare3.largest(val1, val2, val3).
• Add code to also prompt the user for three integers and try to use your largest method to find the largest of the three
integers. Does this work? If it does, it’s thanks to autoboxing, which is Java 1.5’s automatic conversion of ints to
Integers. You may have to use the -source 1.5 compiler option for this to work.

A Modified MiniQuiz Class
Files Question.java, Complexity.java, and MiniQuiz.java contain the classes in Listings 6.8-6.10of the text. These classes
demonstrate the use of the Complexity interface; class Question implements the interface, and class MiniQuiz creates two
Question objects and uses them to give the user a short quiz.
Save these three files to your directory and study the code in MiniQuiz.java. Notice that after the Question objects are
created, almost exactly the same code appears twice, once to ask and grade the first question, and again to ask and grade the
second question. Another approach is to write a method askQuestion that takes a Question object and does all the work of
asking the user the question, getting the user’s response, and determining whether the response is correct. You could then
simply call this method twice, once for q1 and once for q2. Modify the MiniQuiz class so that it has such an askQuestion
method, and replace the code in main that asks and grades the questions with two calls to askQuestion. Some things to keep
in mind:
The definition of askQuestion should be inside the MiniQuiz class but after the main method.
Since main is a static method, askQuestion must be static too. (A static method cannot call an instance method of the
same class.) Also, askQuestion is for use only by this class, so it should be declared private. So the header for
askQuestion should look like this:
private static void askQuestion(Question question)
• String possible, which is currently declared in main, will need to be defined in askQuestion instead.
• The Scanner object scan needs to be a static variable and moved outside of main (so it is available to askQuestion).
• You do not need to make any changes to Question.java or Complexity .java.
//****************************************************************
// Question.java Author: Lewis/Loftus
//
// Represents a question (and its answer).
//****************************************************************
public class Question implements Complexity
{
private String question, answer;
private int complexityLevel;
//--------------------------------------------------------------
// Sets up the question with a default complexity.
//--------------------------------------------------------------
public Question (String query, String result)
{
question = query;
answer = result;
complexityLevel = 1;
}
//--------------------------------------------------------------
// Sets the complexity level for this question.
//--------------------------------------------------------------
public void setComplexity (int level)
{
complexityLevel = level;
}
//--------------------------------------------------------------
// Returns the complexity level for this question.
//--------------------------------------------------------------
public int getComplexity()

{
return complexityLevel;
}
//--------------------------------------------------------------
// Returns the question.
//--------------------------------------------------------------
public String getQuestion()
{
return question;
}
//--------------------------------------------------------------
// Returns the answer to this question.
//--------------------------------------------------------------
public String getAnswer()
{
return answer;
}
//--------------------------------------------------------------
// Returns true if the candidate answer matches the answer.
//--------------------------------------------------------------
public boolean answerCorrect (String candidateAnswer)
{
return answer.equals(candidateAnswer);
}
//--------------------------------------------------------------
// Returns this question (and its answer) as a string.
//--------------------------------------------------------------
{
return question + "n" + answer;
}
}
//*****************************************************************
// Complexity.java Author: Lewis/Loftus
//
// Represents the interface for an object that can be assigned an
// explicit complexity.
//*****************************************************************
public interface Complexity
{
public void setComplexity (int complexity);
public int getComplexity();
}

//*****************************************************************
// MiniQuiz.java Author: Lewis/Loftus
//
// Demonstrates the use of a class that implements an interface.
//*****************************************************************
import java.util.Scanner;
public class MiniQuiz
{
//--------------------------------------------------------------
// Presents a short quiz.
//--------------------------------------------------------------
public static void main (String[] args)
{
Question q1, q2;
String possible;
Scanner scan = new Scanner(System.in);
q1 = new Question ("What is the capital of Jamaica?",
"Kingston");
q1.setComplexity (4);
q2 = new Question ("Which is worse, ignorance or apathy?",
"I don't know and I don't care");
q2.setComplexity (10);
System.out.print (q1.getQuestion());
System.out.println (" (Level: " + q1.getComplexity() + ")");
possible = scan.nextLine();
if (q1.answerCorrect(possible))
System.out.println ("Correct");
else
System.out.println ("No, the answer is " + q1.getAnswer());
System.out.println();
System.out.print (q2.getQuestion());
System.out.println (" (Level: " + q2.getComplexity() + ")");
possible = scan.nextLine();
if (q2.answerCorrect(possible))
System.out.println ("Correct");
else
System.out.println ("No, the answer is " + q2.getAnswer ());
}
}

A Flexible Account Class
File Account.java contains a definition for a simple bank account class with methods to withdraw, deposit, get the balance
and account number, and return a String representation. Note that the constructor for this class creates a random account
number. Save this class to your directory and study it to see how it works. Then modify it as follows:
1. Overload the constructor as follows:
• public Account (double initBal, String owner, long number) - initializes the balance, owner, and account
number as specified
• public Account (double initBal, String owner) - initializes the balance and owner as specified; randomly
generates the account number.
• public Account (String owner) - initializes the owner as specified; sets the initial balance to 0 and randomly
generates the account number.
2. Overload the withdraw method with one that also takes a fee and deducts that fee from the account.
File TestAccount.java contains a simple program that exercises these methods. Save it to your directory, study it to see what
it does, and use it to test your modified Account class.
//************************************************************
// Account.java
//
// A bank account class with methods to deposit to, withdraw from,
// change the name on, and get a String representation
// of the account.
//************************************************************
public class Account
{
private double balance;
private String name;
private long acctNum;
//-------------------------------------------------
//Constructor -- initializes balance, owner, and account number
//-------------------------------------------------
public Account(double initBal, String owner, long number)
{
balance = initBal;
name = owner;
acctNum = number;
}
//-------------------------------------------------
// Checks to see if balance is sufficient for withdrawal.
// If so, decrements balance by amount; if not, prints message.
//-------------------------------------------------
public void withdraw(double amount)
{
if (balance >= amount)
balance -= amount;
else
System.out.println("Insufficient funds");
}
//-------------------------------------------------
// Adds deposit amount to balance.
//-------------------------------------------------

public void deposit(double amount)
{
balance += amount;
}
//-------------------------------------------------
// Returns balance.
//-------------------------------------------------
public double getBalance()
{
return balance;
}
//-------------------------------------------------
// Returns a string containing the name, account number, and balance.
//-------------------------------------------------
{
return "Name:" + name +
"nAccount Number: " + acctNum +
"nBalance: " + balance;
}
}
//************************************************************
// TestAccount.java
//
// A simple driver to test the overloaded methods of
// the Account class.
//************************************************************
public class TestAccount
{
public static void main(String[] args)
{
String name;
double balance;
long acctNum;
Account acct;
System.out.println("Enter account holder's first name");
name = scan.next();
acct = new Account(name);
System.out.println("Account for " + name + ":");
System.out.println(acct);
System.out.println("nEnter initial balance");
balance = scan.nextDouble();
acct = new Account(balance,name);

System.out.println("nEnter account number");
acctNum = scan.nextLong();
acct = new Account(balance,name,acctNum);
System.out.print("nDepositing 100 into account, balance is now ");
acct.deposit(100);
System.out.println(acct.getBalance());
System.out.print("nWithdrawing $25, balance is now ");
acct.withdraw(25);
System.out.print("nWithdrawing $25 with $2 fee, balance is now ");
acct.withdraw(25,2);
System.out.println("nBye!");
}
}

Modifying the Coin Class
1. Create a new class named BiasedCoin that models a biased coin (heads and tails are not equally likely outcomes of a
flip). To do this modify the coin class from the Listing 5.4 of text (in the file Coin.java) as follows:
Add a private data member bias of type double. This data member will be a number between 0 and 1 (inclusive) that
represents the probability the coin will be HEADS when flipped. So, if bias is 0.5, the coin is an ordinary fair coin.
If bias is 0.6, the coin has probability 0.6 of coming up heads (on average, it comes up heads 60% of the time).
Modify the default constructor by assigning the value 0.5 to bias before the call to flip. This will make the default
coin a fair one.
Modify flip so that it generates a random number then assigns face a value of HEADS if the number is less than the
bias; otherwise it assigns a value of TAILS.
Add a second constructor with a single double parameter—that parameter will be the bias. If the parameter is valid
(a number between 0 and 1 inclusive) the constructor should assign the bias data member the value of the parameter;
otherwise it should assign bias a value of 0.5. Call flip (as the other constructor does) to initialize the value of face.
2. Compile your class to make sure you have no syntax errors.
3. Write a program that uses three BiasedCoin objects. Instantiate one as a fair coin using the constructor with no
parameter. Read in the biases for the other two coins and instantiate those coins using the constructor with the bias as a
parameter. Your program should then have a loop that flips each coin 100 times and counts the number of times each is
heads. After the loop print the number of heads for each coin. Run the program several times testing out different biases.

Opening and Closing Accounts
File Account.java (see previous exercise) contains a definition for a simple bank account class with methods to withdraw,
deposit, get the balance and account number, and return a String representation. Note that the constructor for this class
creates a random account number. Save this class to your directory and study it to see how it works. Then write the following
additional code:
1. Suppose the bank wants to keep track of how many accounts exist.
a. Declare a private static integer variable numAccounts to hold this value. Like all instance and static variables, it will
be initialized (to 0, since it’s an int) automatically.
b. Add code to the constructor to increment this variable every time an account is created.
c. Add a static method getNumAccounts that returns the total number of accounts. Think about why this method should
be static - its information is not related to any particular account.
d. File TestAccounts1.java contains a simple program that creates the specified number of bank accounts then uses the
getNumAccounts method to find how many accounts were created. Save it to your directory, then use it to test your
modified Account class.
2. Add a method void close() to your Account class. This method should close the current account by appending
“CLOSED” to the account name and setting the balance to 0. (The account number should remain unchanged.) Also
decrement the total number of accounts.
3. Add a static method Account consolidate(Account acct1, Account acct2) to your Account class that creates a new
account whose balance is the sum of the balances in acct1 and acct2 and closes acct1 and acct2. The new account should
be returned. Two important rules of consolidation:
• Only accounts with the same name can be consolidated. The new account gets the name on the old accounts but a new
account number.
• Two accounts with the same number cannot be consolidated. Otherwise this would be an easy way to double your
money!
Check these conditions before creating the new account. If either condition fails, do not create the new account or close
the old ones; print a useful message and return null.
4. Write a test program that prompts for and reads in three names and creates an account with an initial balance of $ 100 for
each. Print the three accounts, then close the first account and try to consolidate the second and third into a new account.
Now print the accounts again, including the consolidated one if it was created.
//************************************************************
// TestAccounts1
// A simple program to test the numAccts method of the
// Account class.
//************************************************************
public class TestAccounts1
{
public static void main(String[] args)
{
Account testAcct;

System.out.println("How many accounts would you like to create?"); int num =
scan.nextInt();
for (int i=1; i<=num; i++)
{
testAcct = new Account(100, "Name" + i);
System.out.println("nCreated account " + testAcct);
System.out.println("Now there are " + Account.numAccounts () +
" accounts");
}
}
}

Counting Transactions
File Account.java (see A Flexible Account Class exercise) contains a definition for a simple bank account class with
methods to withdraw, deposit, get the balance and account number, and return a String representation. Note that the
constructor for this class creates a random account number. Save this class to your directory and study it to see how it works.
Now modify it to keep track of the total number of deposits and withdrawals (separately) for each day, and the total amount
deposited and withdrawn. Write code to do this as follows:
1. Add four private static variables to the Account class, one to keep track of each value above (number and total amount of
deposits, number and total of withdrawals). Note that since these variables are static, all of the Account objects share
them. This is in contrast to the instance variables that hold the balance, name, and account number; each Account has its
own copy of these. Recall that numeric static and instance variables are initialized to 0 by default.
2. Add public methods to return the values of each of the variables you just added, e.g., public static int getNumDeposits().
3. Modify the withdraw and deposit methods to update the appropriate static variables at each withdrawal and deposit
4. File ProcessTransactions.java contains a program that creates and initializes two Account objects and enters a loop that
allows the user to enter transactions for either account until asking to quit. Modify this program as follows:
After the loop, print the total number of deposits and withdrawals and the total amount of each. You will need to use
the Account methods that you wrote above. Test your program.
Imagine that this loop contains the transactions for a single day. Embed it in a loop that allows the transactions to be
recorded and counted for many days. At the beginning of each day print the summary for each account, then have
the user enter the transactions for the day. When all of the transactions have been entered, print the total numbers
and amounts (as above), then reset these values to 0 and repeat for the next day. Note that you will need to add
methods to reset the variables holding the numbers and amounts of withdrawals and deposits to the Account class.
Think: should these be static or instance methods?
//************************************************************
// ProcessTransactions.java
//
// A class to process deposits and withdrawals for two bank
// accounts for a single day.
//************************************************************
public class ProcessTransactions
{
public static void main(String[] args){
Account acct1, acct2; //two test accounts
String keepGoing = "y"; //more transactions?
String action; //deposit or withdraw
double amount; //how much to deposit or withdraw
long acctNumber; //which account to access
//Create two accounts
acct1 = new Account(1000, "Sue", 123);
acct2 = new Account(1000, "Joe", 456);
System.out.println( "The following accounts are available: n" );
acct1.printSummary();
System.out.println();
acct2.printSummary();

while (keepGoing.equals("y") || keepGoing.equals("y"))
{
//get account number, what to do, and amount
System.out.print("nEnter the number of the account you would like
to access: ");
acctNumber = scan.nextLong();
System.out.print("Would you like to make a deposit (D) or withdrawal
(W) ? ");
action = scan.next();
System.out.print("Enter the amount: ");
amount = scan.nextDouble();
if (amount > 0)
if (acctNumber == acct1.getAcctNumber())
if (action.equals("w") || action.equals("W"))
acct1.withdraw(amount);
else if (action.equals("d") || action.equals("D"))
acct1.deposit(amount);
else
System.out.println("Sorry, invalid action.");
else if (acctNumber == acct2.getAcctNumber())
if (action.equals("w") || action.equals("W"))
acct1.withdraw(amount);
else if (action.equals("d") || action.equals("D"))
acct1.deposit(amount);
else
System.out.println( "Sorry, invalid action. ");
else
System.out.println( "Sorry, invalid account number. ");
else
System.out.println("Sorry, amount must be > 0 . ");
System.out.print("nMore transactions? (y/n)");
keepGoing = scan.next();
}
//Print number of deposits
//Print number of withdrawals
//Print total amount of deposits
//Print total amount of withdrawals
}
}

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Lady Markham looked at Frances critically from her smooth little head
to her neat little shoes. The girl was standing by the fire, with her head
reclined against the mantelpiece of carved oak, which, as a “reproduction,”
was very much thought of in Eaton Square. Frances felt that the blush with
which she met her mother’s look must be seen, though she turned her head
away, through the criticised clothes.
“Her dress is very simple; but there is nothing in bad taste. Don’t you
think I might take her anywhere as she is? I did not notice her hat,” said
Lady Markham, with gravity; “but if that is right—— Simplicity is quite the
right thing at eighteen——”
“And in Lent,” said Markham.
“It is quite true; in Lent, it is better than the right thing—it is the best
thing. My dear, you must have had a very good maid. Foreign women have
certainly better taste than the class we get our servants from. What a pity
you did not bring her with you! One can always find room for a clever
maid.”
“I don’t believe she had any maid; it is all out of her own little head,”
said Markham. “I told you not to let yourself be taken in. She has a deal in
her, that little thing.”
Lady Markham smiled, and gave Frances a kiss, enfolding her once
more in that soft atmosphere which had been such a revelation to her last
night. “I am sure she is a dear little girl, and is going to be a great comfort
to me. You will want to write your letters this morning, my love, which you
must do before lunch. And after lunch, we will go and see your aunt. You
know that is a matter of—what shall we call it, Markham?—conscience
with me.”
“Pride,” Markham said, coming and standing by them in front of the fire.
“Perhaps a little,” she answered with a smile; “but conscience too. I
would not have her say that I had kept the child from her for a single day.”
“That is how conscience speaks, Fan,” said Markham. “You will know
next time you hear it. And after the Clarendons?”
“Well—of course, there must be a hundred things the child wants. We
must look at your evening dresses together, darling. Tell Josephine to lay
them out and let me see them. We are going to have some people at the
Priory for Easter; and when we come back, there will be no time. Yes, I

think on our way home from Portland Place we must just look into—a shop
or two.”
“Now my mind is relieved,” Markham said. “I thought you were going
to change the course of nature, Fan.”
“The child is quite bewildered by your nonsense, Markham,” the mother
said.
And this was quite true. Frances had never been on such terms with her
father as would have entitled her to venture to laugh at him. She was
confused with this new phase, as well as with her many other discoveries:
and it appeared to her that Markham looked just as old as his mother. Lady
Markham was fresh and fair, her complexion as clear as a girl’s, and her
hair still brown and glossy. If art in any way added to this perfection,
Frances had no suspicion of such a possibility. And when she looked from
her mother’s round and soft contour to the wrinkles of Markham, and his
no-colour and indefinite age, and heard him address her with that half-
caressing, half-bantering equality, the girl’s mind grew more and more
hopelessly confused. She withdrew, as was expected of her, to write her
letters, though without knowing how to fulfil that duty. She could write (of
course) to her father. It was of course, and so was what she told him. “We
arrived about six o’clock. I was dreadfully confused with the noise and the
crowds of people. Mamma was very kind. She bids me send you her love.
The house is very fine, and full of furniture, and fires in all the rooms; but
one wants that, for it is much colder here. We are going out after luncheon
to call on my aunt Clarendon. I wish very much I knew who she was, or
who my other relations are; but I suppose I shall find out in time.” This was
the scope of Frances’ letter. And she did not feel warranted, somehow, in
writing to Constance. She knew so little of Constance: and was she not in
some respects a supplanter, taking Constance’s place? When she had
finished her short letter to her father, which was all fact, with very few
reflections, Frances paused and looked round her, and felt no further
inspiration. Should she write to Mariuccia? But that would require time—
there was so much to be said to Mariuccia. Facts were not what she would
want—at least, the facts would have to be of a different kind; and Frances
felt that daylight and all the arrangements of the new life, the necessity to
be ready for luncheon and to go out after, were not conditions under which
she could begin to pour out her heart to her old nurse, the attendant of her
childhood. She must put off till the evening, when she should be alone and

undisturbed, with time and leisure to collect all her thoughts and first
impressions. She put down her pen, which was not, indeed, an instrument
she was much accustomed to wield, and began to think instead; but all her
thinking would not tell her who the relatives were to whom she was about
to be presented; and she reflected with horror that her ignorance must
betray the secret which she had so carefully kept, and expose her father to
further and further criticism.
There was only one way of avoiding this danger, and that was through
Markham, who alone could help her, who was the only individual in whom
she could feel a confidence that he would give her what information he
could, and understand why she asked. If she could but find Markham! She
went down-stairs, timidly flitting along the wide staircase through the great
drawing-room, which was vacant, and found no trace of him. She lingered,
peeping out from between the curtains of the windows upon the leafless
gardens outside in the spring sunshine, the passing carriages which she
could see through their bare boughs, the broad pavement close at hand with
so few passengers, the clatter now and then of a hansom, which amused her
even in the midst of her perplexity, or the drawing up of a brougham at
some neighbouring door. After a minute’s distraction thus, she returned
again to make further investigations from the drawing-room door, and peep
over the balusters to watch for her brother. At last she had the good luck to
perceive him coming out of one of the rooms on the lower floor. She darted
down as swift as a bird, and touched him on the sleeve. He had his hat in his
hand, as if preparing to go out. “Oh,” she said in a breathless whisper, “I
want to speak to you; I want to ask you something,”—holding up her hand
with a warning hush.
“What is it?” returned Markham, chiefly with his eyebrows, with a
comic affectation of silence and secrecy which tempted her to laugh in spite
of herself. Then he nodded his head, took her hand in his, and led her up-
stairs to the drawing-room again. “What is it you want to ask me? Is it a
state secret? The palace is full of spies, and the walls of ears,” said
Markham with mock solemnity, “and I may risk my head by following you.
Fair conspirator, what do you want to ask?”
“Oh, Markham, don’t laugh at me—it is serious. Please, who is my aunt
Clarendon?”

“You little Spartan!” he said; “you are a plucky little girl, Fan. You won’t
betray the daddy, come what may. You are quite right, my dear; but he
ought to have told you. I don’t approve of him, though I approve of you.”
“Papa has a right to do as he pleases,” said Frances steadily; “that is not
what I asked you, please.”
He stood and smiled at her, patting her on the shoulder. “I wonder if you
will stand by me like that, when you hear me get my due? Who is your aunt
Clarendon? She is your father’s sister, Fan; I think the only one who is left.”
“Papa’s sister! I thought it must be—on the other side.”
“My mother,” said Markham, “has few relations—which is a misfortune
that I bear with equanimity. Mrs Clarendon married a lawyer a great many
years ago, Fan, when he was poor; and now he is very rich, and they will
make him a judge one of these days.”
“A judge,” said Frances. “Then he must be very good and wise. And my
aunt——”
“My dear, the wife’s qualities are not as yet taken into account. She is
very good, I don’t doubt; but they don’t mean to raise her to the Bench. You
must remember when you go there, Fan, that they are the other side.”
“What do you mean by ‘the other side’?” inquired Frances anxiously,
fixing her eyes upon the kind, queer, insignificant personage, who yet was
so important in this house.
Markham gave forth that little chuckle of a laugh which was his special
note of merriment. “You will soon find it out for yourself,” he replied; “but
the dear old mammy can hold her own. Is that all? for I’m running off; I
have an engagement.”
“Oh, not all—not half. I want you to tell me—I want to know—I—I
don’t know where to begin,” said Frances, with her hand on the sleeve of
his coat.
“Nor I,” he retorted with a laugh. “Let me go now; we’ll find an
opportunity. Keep your eyes, or rather your ears, open; but don’t take all
you hear for gospel. Good-bye till to-night. I’m coming to dinner to-night.”
“Don’t you live here?” said Frances, accompanying him to the door.
“Not such a fool, thank you,” replied Markham, stopping her gently, and
closing the door of the room with care after him as he went away.

Frances was much discouraged by finding nothing but that closed door
in front of her where she had been gazing into his ugly but expressive face.
It made a sort of dead stop, an emphatic punctuation, marking the end. Why
should he say he was not such a fool as to live at home with his mother?
Why should he be so nice and yet so odd? Why had Constance warned her
not to put herself in Markham’s hands? All this confused the mind of
Frances whenever she began to think. And she did not know what to do
with herself. She stole to the window and watched through the white
curtains, and saw him go away in the hansom which stood waiting at the
door. She felt a vacancy in the house after his departure, the loss of a
support, an additional silence and sense of solitude; even something like a
panic took possession of her soul. Her impulse was to rush up-stairs again
and shut herself up in her room. She had never yet been alone with her
mother except for a moment. She dreaded the (quite unnecessary, to her
thinking) meal which was coming, at which she must sit down opposite to
Lady Markham, with that solemn old gentleman, dressed like Mr Durant,
and that gorgeous theatrical figure of a footman, serving the two ladies. Ah,
how different from Domenico—poor Domenico, who had called her carina
from her childhood, and who wept over her hand as he kissed it, when she
was coming away. Oh, when should she see these faithful friends again?
“I want you to be quite at your ease with your aunt Clarendon,” said
Lady Markham at luncheon, when the servants had left the room. “She will
naturally want to know all about your father and your way of living. We
have not talked very much on that subject, my dear, because, for one thing,
we have not had much time; and because—— But she will want to know all
the little details. And, my darling, I want just to tell you, to warn you. Poor
Caroline is not very fond of me. Perhaps it is natural. She may say things to
you about your mother——”
“Oh no, mamma,” said Frances, looking up in her mother’s face.
“You don’t know, my dear. Some people have a great deal of prejudice.
Your aunt Caroline, as is quite natural, takes a different view. I wonder if I
can make you understand what I mean without using words which I don’t
want to use?”
“Yes,” said Frances; “you may trust me, mamma; I think I understand.”
Lady Markham rose and came to where her child sat, and kissed her
tenderly. “My dear, I think you will be a great comfort to me,” she said.

“Constance was always hot-headed. She would not make friends, when I
wished her to make friends. The Clarendons are very rich; they have no
children, Frances. Naturally, I wish you to stand well with them. Besides, I
would not allow her to suppose for a moment that I would keep you from
her—that is what I call conscience, and Markham pride.”
Frances did not know what to reply. She did not understand what the
wealth of the Clarendons had to do with it; everything else she could
understand. She was very willing, nay, eager to see her father’s sister, yet
very determined that no one should say a word to her to the detriment of her
mother. So far as that went, in her own mind all was clear.

CHAPTER XXIII.
Mrs Clarendon lived in one of the great houses in Portland Place which
fashion has abandoned. It was very silent, wrapped in that stillness and
decorum which is one of the chief signs of an entirely well-regulated house,
also of a place in which life is languid and youth does not exist. Frances
followed her mother with a beating heart through the long wide hall and
large staircase, over soft carpets, on which their feet made no sound. She
thought they were stealing in like ghosts to some silent place in which
mystery of one kind or other must attend them; but the room they were
ushered into was only a very large, very still drawing-room, in painfully
good order, inhabited by nothing but a fire, which made a little sound and
flicker that preserved it from utter death. The blinds were drawn half over
the windows; the long curtains hung down in dark folds. There were none
of the quaintnesses, the modern æstheticisms, the crowds of small
picturesque articles of furniture impeding progress, in which Lady
Markham delighted. The furniture was all solid, durable—what upholsterers
call very handsome—huge mirrors over the mantelpieces, a few large
portraits in chalk on the walls, solemn ornaments on the table; a large and
brilliantly painted china flower-pot enclosing a large plant of the palm kind,
dark-green and solemn, like everything else, holding the place of honour. It
was very warm and comfortable, full of low easy-chairs and sofas, but at
the same time very severe and forbidding, like a place into which the
common occupations of life were never brought.
“She never sits here,” said Lady Markham in a low tone. “She has a
morning-room that is cosy enough. She comes up here after dinner, when
Mr Clarendon takes a nap before he looks over his briefs; and he comes up
at ten o’clock for ten minutes and takes a cup of tea. Then she goes to bed.
That is about all the intercourse they have, and all the time the drawing-
room is occupied, except when people come to call. That is why it has such
a depressing look.”
“Is she not happy, then?” said Frances wistfully, which was a silly
question, as she now saw as soon as she had uttered it.
“Happy! Oh, probably just as happy as other people. That is not a
question that is ever asked in Society, my dear. Why shouldn’t she be

happy? She has everything she has ever wished for—plenty of money—for
they are very rich—her husband quite distinguished in his sphere, and in the
way of advancement. What could she want more? She is a lucky woman, as
women go.”
“Still she must be dull, with no one to speak to,” said Frances, looking
round her with a glance of dismay. What she thought was, that it would
probably be her duty to come here to make a little society for her aunt, and
her heart sank at the sight of this decent, nay, handsome gloom, with a
sensation which Mariuccia’s kitchen at home, which only looked on the
court, or the dimly lighted rooms of the villagers, had never given her. The
silence was terrible, and struck a chill to her heart. Then all at once the door
opened, and Mrs Clarendon came in, taking the young visitor entirely by
surprise; for the soft carpets and thick curtains so entirely shut out all
sound, that she seemed to glide in like a ghost to the ghosts already there.
Frances, unaccustomed to English comfort, was startled by the absence of
sound, and missed the indication of the footstep on the polished floor,
which had so often warned her to lay aside her innocent youthful visions at
the sound of her father’s approach. Mrs Clarendon coming in so softly
seemed to arrest them in the midst of their talk about her, bringing a flush to
Frances’ face. She was a tall woman, fair and pale, with cold grey eyes, and
an air which was like that of her rooms—the air of being unused, of being
put against the wall like the handsome furniture. She came up stiffly to
Lady Markham, who went to meet her with effusion, holding out both
hands.
“I am so glad to see you, Caroline. I feared you might be out, as it was
such a beautiful day.”
“Is it a beautiful day? It seemed to me cold, looking out. I am not very
energetic, you know—not like you. Have I seen this young lady before?”
“You have not seen her for a long time—not since she was a child; nor I
either, which is more wonderful. This is Frances. Caroline, I told you I
expected——”
“My brother’s child!” Mrs Clarendon said, fixing her eyes upon the girl,
who came forward with shy eagerness. She did not open her arms, as
Frances expected. She inspected her carefully and coldly, and ended by
saying, “But she is like you,” with a certain tone of reproach.

“That is not my fault,” said Lady Markham, almost sharply; and then she
added: “For the matter of that, they are both your brother’s children—
though, unfortunately, mine too.”
“You know my opinion on that matter,” said Mrs Clarendon; and then,
and not till then, she gave Frances her hand, and stooping kissed her on the
cheek. “Your father writes very seldom, and I have never heard a word from
you. All the same, I have always taken an interest in you. It must be very
sad for you, after the life to which you have been accustomed, to be
suddenly sent here without any will of your own.”
“Oh no,” said Frances. “I was very glad to come, to see mamma.”
“That’s the proper thing to say, of course,” the other said with a cold
smile. There was just enough of a family likeness to her father to arrest
Frances in her indignation. She was not allowed time to make an answer,
even had she possessed confidence enough to do so, for her aunt went on,
without looking at her again: “I suppose you have heard from Constance? It
must be difficult for her too, to reconcile herself with the different kind of
life. My brother’s quiet ways are not likely to suit a young lady about
town.”
“Frances will be able to tell you all about it,” said Lady Markham, who
kept her temper with astonishing self-control. “She only arrived last night. I
would not delay a moment in bringing her to you. Of course, you will like
to hear. Markham, who went to fetch his sister, is of opinion that on the
whole the change will do Constance good.”
“I don’t at all doubt it will do her good. To associate with my brother
would do any one good—who is worthy of it; but of course it will be a great
change for her. And this child will be kept just long enough to be infected
with worldly ways, and then sent back to him spoilt for his life. I suppose,
Lady Markham, that is what you intend?”
“You are so determined to think badly of me,” said Lady Markham, “that
it is vain for me to say anything; or else I might remind you that Con’s
going off was a greater surprise to me than to any one. You know what were
my views for her?”
“Yes. I rather wonder why you take the trouble to acquaint me with your
plans,” Mrs Clarendon said.
“It is foolish, perhaps; but I have a feeling that as Edward’s only near
relation——”

“Oh, I am sure I am much obliged to you for your consideration,” the
other cried quickly. “Constance was never influenced by me; though I don’t
wonder that her soul revolted at such a marriage as you had prepared for
her.”
“Why?” cried Lady Markham quickly, with an astonished glance. Then
she added with a smile: “I am afraid you will see nothing but harm in any
plan of mine. Unfortunately, Con did not like the gentleman whom I
approved. I should not have put any force upon her. One can’t nowadays, if
one wished to. It is contrary, as she says herself, to the spirit of the times.
But if you will allow me to say so, Caroline, Con is too like her father to
bear anything, to put up with anything that——”
“Thank heaven!” cried Mrs Clarendon. “She is indeed a little like her
dear father, notwithstanding a training so different. And this one, I suppose
—this one you find like you?”
“I am happy to think she is a little, in externals at least,” said Lady
Markham, taking Frances’ hand in her own. “But Edward has brought her
up, Caroline; that should be a passport to your affections at least.”
Upon this, Mrs Clarendon came down as from a pedestal, and addressed
herself to the girl, over whose astonished head this strange dialogue had
gone. “I am afraid, my dear, you will think me very hard and disagreeable,”
she said. “I will not tell you why, though I think I could make out a case.
How is your dear father? He writes seldomer and seldomer—sometimes not
even at Christmas; and I am afraid you have little sense of family duties,
which is a pity at your age.”
Frances did not know how to reply to this accusation, and she was
confused and indignant, and little disposed to attempt to please. “Papa,” she
said, “is very well. I have heard him say that he could not write letters—our
life was so quiet: there was nothing to say.”
“Ah, my dear, that is all very well for strangers, or for those who care
more about the outside than the heart. But he might have known that
anything, everything would be interesting to me. It is just your quiet life
that I like to hear about. Society has little attraction for me. I suppose you
are half an Italian, are you? and know nothing about English life.”
“She looks nothing but English,” said Lady Markham in a sort of
parenthesis.

“The only people I know are English,” said Frances. “Papa is not fond of
society. We see the Gaunts and the Durants, but nobody else. I have always
tried to be like my own country-people, as well as I could.”
“And with great success, my dear,” said her mother with a smiling look.
Mrs Clarendon said nothing, but looked at her with silent criticism. Then
she turned to Lady Markham. “Naturally,” she said, “I should like to make
acquaintance with my niece, and hear all the details about my dear brother;
but that can’t be done in a morning call. Will you leave her with me for the
day? Or may I have her to-morrow, or the day after? Any time will suit me.”
“She only arrived last night, Caroline. I suppose even you will allow that
the mother should come first. Thursday, Frances shall spend with you, if
that suits you?”
“Thursday, the third day,” said Mrs Clarendon, ostentatiously counting
on her fingers—“during which interval you will have full time—— Oh yes,
Thursday will suit me. The mother, of course, conventionally, has, as you
say, the first right.”
“Conventionally and naturally too,” Lady Markham replied; and then
there was a silence, and they sat looking at each other. Frances, who felt her
innocent self to be something like the bone of contention over which these
two ladies were wrangling, sat with downcast eyes confused and indignant,
not knowing what to do or say. The mistress of the house did nothing to
dissipate the embarrassment of the moment: she seemed to have no wish to
set her visitors at their ease, and the pause, during which the ticking of the
clock on the mantelpiece and the occasional fall of ashes from the fire came
in as a sort of chorus or symphony, loud and distinct, to fill up the interval,
was half painful, half ludicrous. It seemed to the quick ears of the girl thus
suddenly introduced into the arena of domestic conflict, that there was a
certain irony in this inarticulate commentary upon those petty miseries of
life.
At last, at the end of what seemed half an hour of silence, Lady
Markham rose and spread her wings—or at least shook out her silken
draperies, which comes to the same thing. “As that is settled, we need not
detain you any longer,” she said.
Mrs Clarendon rose too, slowly. “I cannot expect,” she replied, “that you
can give up your valuable time to me; but mine is not so much occupied. I
will expect you, Frances, before one o’clock on Thursday. I lunch at one;

and then if there is anything you want to see or do, I shall be glad to take
you wherever you like. I suppose I may keep her to dinner? Mr Clarendon
will like to make acquaintance with his niece.”
“Oh, certainly; as long as you and she please,” said Lady Markham with
a smile. “I am not a medieval parent, as poor Con says.”
“Yet it was on that ground that Constance abandoned you and ran away
to her father,” quoth the implacable antagonist.
Lady Markham, calm as she was, grew red to her hair. “I don’t think
Constance has abandoned me,” she cried hastily; “and if she has, the fault is
—— But there is no discussion possible between people so hopelessly of
different opinions as you and I,” she added, recovering her composure. “Mr
Clarendon is well, I hope?”
“Very well. Good morning, since you will go,” said the mistress of the
house. She dropped another cold kiss upon Frances’ cheek. It seemed to the
girl, indeed, who was angry and horrified, that it was her aunt’s nose, which
was a long one and very chilly, which touched her. She made no response to
this nasal salutation. She felt, indeed, that to give a slap to that other cheek
would be much more expressive of her sentiments than a kiss, and followed
her mother down-stairs hot with resentment. Lady Markham, too, was
moved. When she got into the brougham, she leant back in her corner and
put her handkerchief lightly to the corner of each eye. Then she laughed,
and laid her hand upon Frances’ arm.
“You are not to think I am grieving,” she said; “it is only rage. Did you
ever know such a——? But, my dear, we must recollect that it is natural—
that she is on the other side.”
“Is it natural to be so unkind, to be so cruel?” cried Frances. “Then,
mamma, I shall hate England, where I once thought everything was good.”
“Everything is not good anywhere, my love; and Society, I fear, above
all, is far from being perfect,—not that your poor dear aunt Caroline can be
said to be in Society,” Lady Markham added, recovering her spirits. “I don’t
think they see anybody but a few lawyers like themselves.”
“But, mamma, why do you go to see her? Why do you endure it? You
promised for me, or I should never go back, neither on Thursday nor any
other time.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Frances, my dear! I hope you have not got
those headstrong Waring ways. Because she hates me, that is no reason why

she should hate you. Even Con saw as much as that. You are of her own
blood, and her near relation: and I never heard that he took very much to
any of the young people on his side. And they are very rich. A man like that,
at the head of his profession, must be coining money. It would be wicked of
me, for any little tempers of mine, to risk what might be a fortune for my
children. And you know I have very little more than my jointure, and your
father is not rich.”
This exposition of motives was like another language to Frances. She
gazed at her mother’s soft face, so full of sweetness and kindness, with a
sense that Lady Markham was under the sway of motives and influences
which had been left out in her own simple education. Was it supreme and
self-denying generosity, or was it—something else? The girl was too
inexperienced, too ignorant to tell. But the contrast between Lady
Markham’s wonderful temper and forbearance and the harsh and
ungenerous tone of her aunt, moved her heart out of the region of reason.
“If you put up with all that for us, I cannot see any reason why we should
put up with it for you!” she cried indignantly. “She cannot have any right to
speak to my mother so—and before me.”
“Ah, my darling, that is just the sweetness of it to her. If we were alone, I
should not mind; she might say what she liked. It is because of you that she
can make me feel—a little. But you must take no notice; you must leave me
to fight my own battles.”
“Why?” Frances flung up her young head, till she looked about a foot
taller than her mother. “I will never endure it, mamma; you may say what
you like. What is her fortune to me?”
“My love!” she exclaimed; “why, you little savage, her fortune is
everything to you! It may make all the difference.” Then she laughed rather
tremulously, and leaning over, bestowed a kiss upon her stranger-child’s
half-reluctant cheek. “It is very, very sweet of you to make a stand for your
mother,” she said, “and when you know so little of me. The horrid people in
Society would say that was the reason; but I think you would defend your
mother anyhow, my Frances, my child that I have always missed! But look
here, dear: you must not do it. I am old enough to take care of myself. And
your poor aunt Clarendon is not so bad as you think. She believes she has
reason for it. She is very fond of your father, and she has not seen him for a
dozen years; and there is no telling whether she may ever see him again;

and she thinks it is my fault. So you must not take up arms on my behalf till
you know better. And it would be so much to your advantage if she should
take a fancy to you, my dear. Do you think I could ever reconcile myself,
for any amour-propre of mine, to stand in my child’s way?”
Once more, Frances was unable to make any reply. All the lines of
sentiment and sense to which she had been accustomed seemed to be
getting blurred out. Where she had come from, a family stood together,
shoulder by shoulder. They defended each other, and even revenged each
other; and though the law might disapprove, public opinion stood by them.
A child who looked on careless while its parents were assailed would have
been to Mariuccia an odious monster. Her father’s opinions on such a
subject, Frances had never known: but as for fortune, he would have smiled
that disdainful smile of his at the suggestion that she should pay court to
any one because he was rich. Wealth meant having few wants, she had
heard him say a thousand times. It might even have been supposed from his
conversation that he scorned rich people for being rich, which of course was
an exaggeration. But he could never, never have wished her to endeavour to
please an unkind, disagreeable person because of her money. That was
impossible. So that she made no reply, and scarcely even, in her confusion,
responded to the caress with which her mother thanked her for the
partisanship, which it appeared was so out of place.

CHAPTER XXIV.
Frances had not succeeded in resolving this question in her mind when
Thursday came. The two intervening days had been very quiet. She had
gone with her mother to several shops, and had stood by almost passive and
much astonished while a multitude of little luxuries which she had never
been sufficiently enlightened even to wish for, were bought for her. She was
so little accustomed to lavish expenditure, that it was almost with a sense of
wrong-doing that she contemplated all these costly trifles, which were for
the use not of some typical fine lady, but of herself, Frances, who had never
thought it possible she could ever be classed under that title. To Lady
Markham these delicacies were evidently necessaries of life. And then it
was for the first time that Frances learned what an evening dress meant—
not only the garment itself, but the shoes, the stockings, the gloves, the
ribbons, the fan, a hundred little accessories which she had never so much
as thought of. When you have nothing but a set of coral or amber beads to
wear with your white frock, it is astonishing how much that matter is
simplified. Lady Markham opened her jewel-boxes to provide for the same
endless roll of necessities. “This will go with the white dress, and this with
the pink,” she said, thus revealing to Frances another delicacy of accord
unsuspected by her simplicity.
“But, mamma, you are giving me so many things!”
“Not your share yet,” said Lady Markham. And she added: “But don’t
say anything of this to your aunt Clarendon. She will probably give you
something out of her hoards, if she thinks you are not provided.”
This speech checked the pleasure and gratitude of Frances. She stopped
with a little gasp in her eager thanks. She wanted nothing from her aunt
Clarendon, she said to herself with indignation, nor from her mother either.
If they would but let her keep her ignorance, her pleasure in any simple gift,
and not represent her, even to herself, as a little schemer, trying how much
she could get! Frances cried rather than smiled over her turquoises and the
set of old gold ornaments, which but for that little speech would have made
her happy. The suggestion put gall into everything, and made the timid
question in her mind as to Lady Markham’s generous forbearance with her

sister-in-law more difficult than ever. Why did she bear it? She ought not to
have borne it—not for a day.
On the Wednesday evening before the visit to Portland Place, to which
she looked with so much alarm, two gentlemen came to dinner at the
invitation of Markham. The idea of two gentlemen to dinner produced no
exciting effect upon Frances so as to withdraw her mind from the trial that
was coming. Gentlemen were the only portion of the creation with which
she was more or less acquainted. Even in the old Palazzo, a guest of this
description had been occasionally received, and had sat discussing some
point of antiquarian lore, or something about the old books at Colla, with
her father without taking any notice, beyond what civility demanded, of the
little girl who sat at the head of the table. She did not doubt it would be the
same thing to-night; and though Markham was always nice, never leaving
her out, never letting the conversation drop altogether into that stream of
personality or allusion which makes Society so intolerable to a stranger, she
yet prepared for the evening with the feeling that dulness awaited her, and
not pleasure. One of the guests, however, was of a kind which Frances did
not expect. He was young, very young in appearance, rather small and
delicate, but at the same time refined, with a look of gentle melancholy
upon a countenance which was almost beautiful, with child-like limpid
eyes, and features of extreme delicacy and purity. This was something quite
unlike the elderly antiquarians who talked so glibly to her father about
Roman remains or Etruscan art. He sat between Lady Markham and herself,
and spoke in gentle tones, with a soft affectionate manner, to her mother,
who replied with the kindness and easy affectionateness which were
habitual to her. To see the sweet looks which this young gentleman
received, and to hear the tender questions about his health and his
occupations which Lady Markham put to him, awoke in the mind of
Frances another doubt of the same character as those others from which she
had not been able to get free. Was this sympathetic tone, this air of tender
interest, put on at will for the benefit of everybody with whom Lady
Markham spoke? Frances hated herself for the instinctive question which
rose in her, and for the suspicions which crept into her mind on every side
and undermined all her pleasure. The other stranger opposite to her was old
—to her youthful eyes—and called forth no interest at all. But the
gentleness and melancholy, the low voice, the delicate features, something
plaintive and appealing about the youth by her side, attracted her interest in

spite of herself. He said little to her, but from time to time she caught him
looking at her with a sort of questioning glance. When the ladies left the
table, and Frances and her mother were alone in the drawing-room, Lady
Markham, who had said nothing for some minutes, suddenly turned and
asked: “What did you think of him, Frances?” as if it were the most natural
question in the world.
“Of whom?” said Frances in her astonishment.
“Of Claude, my dear. Whom else? Sir Thomas could be of no particular
interest either to you or me.”
“I did not know their names, mamma; I scarcely heard them. Claude is
the young gentleman who sat next to you?”
“And to you also, Frances. But not only that. He is the man of whom, I
suppose, Constance has told you—to avoid whom she left home, and ran
away from me. Oh, the words come quite appropriate, though I could not
bear them from the mouth of Caroline Clarendon. She abandoned me, and
threw herself upon your father’s protection, because of——”
Frances had listened with a sort of consternation. When her mother
paused for breath, she filled up the interval: “That little, gentle, small,
young man!”
Lady Markham looked for a moment as if she would be angry; then she
took the better way, and laughed. “He is little and young,” she said; “but
neither so young nor even so small as you think. He is most wonderfully,
portentously rich, my dear; and he is very nice and good and intelligent and
generous. You must not take up a prejudice against him because he is not an
athlete or a giant. There are plenty of athletes in Society, my love, but very,
very few with a hundred thousand a-year.”
“It is so strange to me to hear about money,” said Frances. “I hope you
will pardon me, mamma. I don’t understand. I thought he was perhaps some
one who was delicate, whose mother, perhaps, you knew, whom you wanted
to be kind to.”
“Quite true,” said Lady Markham, patting her daughter’s cheek with a
soft finger; “and well judged: but something more besides. I thought, I
allow, that it would be an excellent match for Constance; not only because
he was rich, but also because he was rich. Do you see the difference?”
“I—suppose so,” Frances said; but there was not any warmth in the
admission. “I thought the right way,” she added after a moment, with a

blush that stole over her from head to foot, “was that people fell in love
with each other.”
“So it is,” said her mother, smiling upon her. “But it often happens, you
know, that they fall in love respectively with the wrong people.”
“It is dreadful to me to talk to you, who know so much better,” cried
Frances. “All that I know is from stories. But I thought that even a wrong
person, whom you chose yourself, was better than——”
“The right person chosen by your mother? These are awful doctrines,
Frances. You are a little revolutionary. Who taught you such terrible
things?” Lady Markham laughed as she spoke, and patted the girl’s cheek
more affectionately than ever, and looked at her with unclouded smiles, so
that Frances took courage. “But,” the mother went on, “there was no
question of choice on my part. Constance has known Claude Ramsay all her
life. She liked him, so far as I knew. I supposed she had accepted him. It
was not formally announced, I am happy to say; but I made sure of it, and
so did everybody else—including himself, poor fellow—when, suddenly,
without any warning, your sister disappeared. It was unkind to me, Frances,
—oh, it was unkind to me!”
And suddenly, while she was speaking, two tears appeared all at once in
Lady Markham’s eyes.
Frances was deeply touched by this sight. She ventured upon a caress,
which as yet, except in timid return, to those bestowed upon her, she had
not been bold enough to do. “I do not think Constance can have meant to be
unkind,” she said.
“Few people mean to be unkind,” said this social philosopher, who knew
so much more than Frances. “Your aunt Clarendon does, and that makes her
harmless, because one understands. Most of those who wound one, do it
because it pleases themselves, without meaning anything—or caring
anything—don’t you see?—whether it hurts or not.”
This was too profound a saying to be understood at the first moment, and
Frances had no reply to make to it. She said only by way of apology, “But
Markham approved?”
“My love,” said her mother, “Markham is an excellent son to me. He
rarely wounds me himself—which is perhaps because he rarely does
anything particular himself—but he is not always a safe guide. It makes me
very happy to see that you take to him, though you must have heard many

things against him; but he is not a safe guide. Hush! here are the men
coming up-stairs. If Claude talks to you, be as gentle with him as you can—
and sympathetic, if you can,” she said quickly, rising from her chair, and
moving in her noiseless easy way to the other side. Frances felt as if there
was a meaning even in this movement, which left herself alone with a
vacant seat beside her; but she was confused as usual by all the novelty, and
did not understand what the meaning was.
It was balked, however, if it had anything to do with Mr Ramsay, for it
was the other gentleman—the old gentleman, as Frances called him in her
thoughts—who came up and took the vacant place. The old gentleman was
a man about forty-five, with a few grey hairs among the brown, and a well-
knit manly figure, which showed very well between the delicate youth on
the one hand and Markham’s insignificance on the other. He was Sir
Thomas, whom Lady Markham had declared to be of no particular interest
to any one; but he evidently had sense enough to see the charm of
simplicity and youth. The attention of Frances was sadly distracted by the
movements of Claude, who fidgeted about from one table to another,
looking at the books and the nick-nacks upon them, and staring at the
pictures on the walls, then finally came and stood by Markham’s side in
front of the fire. He did well to contrast himself with Markham. He was
taller, and the beauty of his countenance showed still more strikingly in
contrast with Markham’s odd little wrinkled face. Frances was distracted by
the look which he kept fixed upon herself, and which diverted her attention
in spite of herself away from the talk of Sir Thomas, who was, however,
very nice, and, she felt sure, most interesting and instructive, as became his
advanced age, if only she could attend to what he was saying. But what
with the lively talk which her mother carried on with Markham, and to
which she could not help listening all through the conversation of Sir
Thomas, and the movements and glances of the melancholy young lover,
she could not fix her mind upon the remarks that were addressed to her own
ear. When Claude began to join languidly in the other talk, it was more
difficult still. “You have got a new picture, Lady Markham,” she heard him
say; and a sudden quickening of her attention and another wave of colour
and heat passing over her, arrested even Sir Thomas in the much more
interesting observation which presumably he was about to make. He
paused, as if he, too, waited to hear Lady Markham’s reply.

“Shall we call it a picture? It is my little girl’s sketch from her window
where she has been living—her present to her mother; and I think it is
delightful, though in the circumstances I don’t pretend to be a judge.”
Where she has been living! Frances grew redder and hotter in the flush
of indignation that went over her. But she could not stand up and proclaim
that it was from her home, her dear loggia, the place she loved best in the
world, that the sketch was made. Already the bonds of another life were
upon her, and she dared not do that. And then there was a little chorus of
praise, which silenced her still more effectually. It was the group of palms
which she had been so simply proud of, which—as she had never forgotten
—had made her father say that she had grown up. Lady Markham had
placed it on a small easel on her table; but Frances could not help feeling
that this was less for any pleasure it gave her mother, than in order to make
a little exhibition of her own powers. It was, to be sure, in her own honour
that this was done—and what so natural as that the mother should seek to
do her daughter honour? but Frances was deeply sensitive, and painfully
conscious of the strange tangled web of motives, which she had never in her
life known anything about before. Had the little picture been hung in her
mother’s bedroom, and seen by no eyes but her own, the girl would have
found the most perfect pleasure in it; but here, exhibited as in a public
gallery, examined by admiring eyes, calling forth all the incense of praise, it
was with a mixture of shame and resentment that Frances found it out. It
produced this result, however, that Sir Thomas rose, as in duty bound, to
examine the performance of the daughter of the house; and presently young
Ramsay, who had been watching his opportunity, took the place by her side.
“I have been waiting for this,” he said, with his air of pathos. “I have so
many things to ask you, if you will let me, Miss Waring.”
“Surely,” Frances said.
“Your sketch is very sweet—it is full of feeling—there is no colour like
that of the Riviera. It is the Riviera, is it not?”
“Oh yes,” cried Frances, eager to seize the opportunity of making it
apparent that it was not only where she had been living, as her mother said.
“It is from Bordighera, from our loggia, where I have lived all my life.”
“You will find no colour and no vegetation like that near London,” the
young man said.

To this Frances replied politely that London was full of much more
wonderful things, as she had always heard; but felt somewhat disappointed,
supposing that his communications to her were to be more interesting than
this.
“And the climate is so very different,” he continued. “I am very often
sent out of England for the winter, though this year they have let me stay. I
have been at Nice two seasons. I suppose you know Nice? It is a very pretty
place; but the wind is just as cold sometimes as at home. You have to keep
in the sun; and if you always keep in the sun, it is warm even here.”
“But there is not always sun here,” said Frances.
“That is very true; that is a very clever remark. There is not always sun
here. San Remo was beginning to be known when I was there; but I never
heard of Bordighera as a place where people went to stay. Some Italian
wrote a book about it, I have heard—to push it, no doubt. Could you
recommend it as a winter-place, Miss Waring? I suppose it is very dull,
nothing going on?”
“Oh, nothing at all,” cried Frances eagerly. “All the tourists complain
that there is nothing to do.”
“I thought so,” he said; “a regular little Italian dead-alive place.” Then he
added after a moment’s pause: “But of course there are inducements which
might make one put up with that, if the air happened to suit one. Are there
villas to be had, can you tell me? They say, as a matter of fact, that you get
more advantage of the air when you are in a dull place.”
“There are hotels,” said Frances more and more disappointed, though the
beginning of this speech had given her a little hope.
“Good hotels?” he said with interest. “Sometimes they are really better
than a place of one’s own, where the drainage is often bad, and the exposure
not all that could be desired. And then you get any amusement that may be
going. Perhaps you will tell me the names of one or two? for if this east
wind continues, my doctors may send me off even now.”
Frances looked into his limpid eyes and expressive countenance with
dismay. He must look, she felt sure, as if he were making the most touching
confidences to her. His soft pathetic voice gave a faux air of something
sentimental to those questions, which even she could not persuade herself
meant nothing. Was it to show that he was bent upon following Constance
wherever she might go? That must be the true meaning, she supposed. He

must be endeavouring by this mock-anxiety to find out how much she knew
of his real motives, and whether he might trust to her or not. But Frances
resented a little the unnecessary precaution.
“I don’t know anything about the hotels,” she said. “I have never thought
of the air. It is my home—that is all.”
“You look so well, that I am the more convinced it would be a good
place for me,” said the young man. “You look in such thorough good health,
if you will allow me to say so. Some ladies don’t like to be told that; but I
think it the most delightful thing in existence. Tell me, had you any trouble
with drainage, when you went to settle there? And is the water good? and
how long does the season last? I am afraid I am teasing you with my
questions; but all these details are so important—and one is so pleased to
hear of a new place.”
“We live up in the old town,” said Frances with a sudden flash of malice.
“I don’t know what drainage is, and neither does any one else there. We
have our fountain in the court—our own well. And I don’t think there is any
season. We go up among the mountains, when it gets too hot.”
“Your well in the court!” said the sentimental Claude, with the look of a
poet who has just been told that his dearest friend is killed by an accident,
—“with everything percolating into it! That is terrible indeed. But,” he said,
after a pause, an ethereal sense of consolation stealing over his fine features
—“there are exceptions, they say, to every rule; and sometimes, with fine
health such as you have, bad sanitary conditions do not seem to tell—when
there has been no stirring-up. I believe that is at the root of the whole
question. People can go on, on the old system, so long as there is no
stirring-up; but when once a beginning has been made, it must be complete,
or it is fatal.”
He said this with animation much greater than he had shown as yet; then
dropping into his habitual pathos: “If I come in for tea to-morrow—Lady
Markham allows me to do it, when I can, when the weather is fit for going
out—will you be so very kind as to give me half an hour, Miss Waring, for a
few particulars? I will take them down from your lips—it is so much the
most satisfactory way; and perhaps you would add to your kindness by just
thinking it over beforehand—if there is anything I ought to know.”
“But I am going out to-morrow, Mr Ramsay.”

“Then after to-morrow,” he said; and rising with a bow full of tender
deference, went up to Lady Markham to bid her good-night. “I have been
having a most interesting conversation with Miss Waring. She has given me
so many renseignements,” he said. “She permits me to come after to-
morrow for further particulars. Dear Lady Markham, good-night and à
revoir.”
“What was Claude saying to you, Frances?” Lady Markham asked with
a little anxiety, when everybody save Markham was gone, and they were
alone.
“He asked me about Bordighera, mamma.”
“Poor dear boy! About Con, and what she had said of him? He has a
faithful heart, though people think him a little too much taken up with
himself.”
“He did not say anything about Constance. He asked about the climate
and the drains—what are drains?—and if the water was good, and what
hotel I could recommend.”
Lady Markham laughed and coloured slightly, and tapped Frances on the
cheek. “You are a little satirical——! Dear Claude! he is very anxious about
his health. But don’t you see,” she added, “that was all a covert way of
finding out about Con? He wants to go after her; but he does not want to let
everybody in the world see that he has gone after a girl who would not have
him. I have a great deal of sympathy with him, for my part.”
Frances had no sympathy with him. She felt, on the other hand, more
sympathy for Constance than had moved her yet. To escape from such a
lover, Frances thought a girl might be justified in flying to the end of the
world. But it never entered into her mind that any like danger to herself was
to be thought of. She dismissed Claude Ramsay from her thoughts with half
resentment, half amusement, wondering that Constance had not told her
more; but feeling, as no such image had ever risen on her horizon before,
that she would not have believed Constance. However, her sister had
happily escaped, and to herself, Claude Ramsay was nothing. Far more
important was it to think of the ordeal of to-morrow. She shivered a little
even in her warm room as she anticipated it. England seemed to be colder,
greyer, more devoid of brightness in Portland Place than in Eaton Square.

CHAPTER XXV.
Frances went to Portland Place next day. She went with great reluctance,
feeling that to be thus plunged into the atmosphere of the other side was
intolerable. Had she been able to feel that there was absolute right on either
side, it would not have been so difficult for her. But she knew so little of the
facts of the case, and her natural prepossessions were so curiously double
and variable, that every encounter was painful. To be swept into the faction
of the other side, when the first impassioned sentiment with which she had
felt her mother’s arms around her had begun to sink inevitably into that
silent judgment of another individual’s ways and utterances which is the
hindrance of reason to every enthusiasm—was doubly hard. She was
resolute indeed that not a word or insinuation against her mother should be
permitted in her presence. But she herself had a hundred little doubts and
questions in her mind, traitors whose very existence no one must suspect
but herself. Her natural revulsion from the thought of being forced into
partisanship gave her a feeling of strong opposition and resistance against
everything that might be said to her, when she stepped into the solemn
house in Portland Place, where everything was so large, empty, and still, so
different from her mother’s warm and cheerful abode. The manner in which
her aunt met her strengthened this feeling. On their previous meeting, in
Lady Markham’s presence, the greeting given her by Mrs Clarendon had
chilled her through and through. She was ushered in now to the same still
room, with its unused look, with all the chairs in their right places, and no
litter of habitation about; but her aunt came to her with a different aspect
from that which she had borne before. She came quickly, almost with a
rush, and took the shrinking girl into her arms. “My dear little Frances, my
dear child, my brother’s own little girl!” she cried, kissing her again and
again. Her ascetic countenance was transfigured, her grey eyes warmed and
shone.
Frances could not make any eager response to this warmth. She did her
best to look the gratification which she knew she ought to have felt, and to
return her aunt’s caresses with due fervour; but in her heart there was a chill
of which she felt ashamed, and a sense of insincerity which was very
foreign to her nature. All through these strange experiences, Frances felt

herself insincere. She had not known how to respond even to her mother,
and a cold sense that she was among strangers had crept in even in the
midst of the bewildering certainty that she was with her nearest relations
and in her mother’s house. In present circumstances, “How do you do, aunt
Caroline?” was the only commonplace phrase she could find to say, in
answer to the effusion of affection with which she was received.
“Now we can talk,” said Mrs Clarendon, leading her with both hands in
hers to a sofa near the fire. “While my lady was here it was impossible. You
must have thought me cold, when my heart was just running over to my
dear brother’s favourite child. But I could not open my heart before her,—I
never could do it. And there is so much to ask you. For though I would not
let her know I had never heard, you know very well, my dear, I can’t
deceive you. O Frances, why doesn’t he write? Surely, surely, he must have
known I would never betray him—to her, or any of her race.”
“Aunt Caroline, please remember you are speaking of——”
“Oh, I can’t stand on ceremony with you! I can’t do it. Constance, that
had been always with her, that was another thing. But you, my dear, dear
child! And you must not stand on ceremony with me. I can understand you,
if no one else can. And as for expecting you to love her and honour her and
so forth, a woman whom you have never seen before, who has spoiled your
dear father’s life——”
Frances had put up her hand to stay this flood, but in vain. With eyes that
flashed with excitement, the quiet still grey woman was strangely
transformed. A vivacious and animated person, when moved by passion, is
not so alarming as a reserved and silent one. There was a force of fury and
hatred in her tone and looks which appalled the girl. She interrupted almost
rudely, insisting upon being heard, as soon as Mrs Clarendon paused for
breath.
“You must not speak to me so; you must not—you shall not! I will not
hear it.”
Frances was quiet too, and there was in her also the vehemence of a
tranquil nature transported beyond all ordinary bounds.
Mrs Clarendon stopped and looked at her fixedly, then suddenly changed
her tone. “Your father might have written to me,” she said—“he might have
written to me. He is my only brother, and I am all that remains of the family,
now that Minnie, poor Minnie, who was so much mixed up with it all, is

gone. It was natural enough that he should go away. I always understood
him, if nobody else did; but he might have trusted his own family, who
would never, never have betrayed him. And to think that I should owe my
knowledge of him now to that ill-grown, ill-conditioned—— O Frances, it
was a bitter pill! To owe my knowledge of my brother and of you and
everything about you to Markham—I shall never be able to forget how
bitter it was.”
“You forget that Markham is my brother, aunt Caroline.”
“He is nothing of the sort. He is your half-brother, if you care to keep up
the connection at all. But some people don’t think much of it. It is the
father’s side that counts. But don’t let us argue about that. Tell me how is
your father? Tell me all about him. I love you dearly, for his sake; but above
everything, I want to hear about him. I never had any other brother. How is
he, Frances? To think that I should never have seen or heard of him for
twelve long years!”
“My father is—very well,” said Frances, with a sort of strangulation both
in heart and voice, not knowing what to say.
“ ‘Very well!’ Oh, that is not much to satisfy me with, after so long!
Where is he—and how is he living—and have you been a very good child
to him, Frances? He deserves a good child, for he was a good son. Oh, tell
me a little about him. Did he tell you everything about us? Did he say how
fond and how proud we were of him? and how happy we used to be at
home all together? He must have told you. If you knew how I go back to
those old days! We were such a happy united family. Life is always
disappointing. It does not bring you what you think, and it is not everybody
that has the comfort we have in looking back upon their youth. He must
have told you of our happy life at home.”
Frances had kept the secret of her father’s silence from every one who
had a right to blame him for it. But here she felt herself to be bound by no
such precaution. His sister was on his side. It was in his defence and in
passionate partisanship for him that she had assailed the mother to the child.
Frances had even a momentary angry pleasure in telling the truth without
mitigation or softening. “I don’t know whether you will believe me,” she
said, “but my father told me nothing. He never said a word to me about his
past life or any one connected with him; neither you nor—any one.”
Though she had the kindest heart in the world, and never had harmed a

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