stinging according to convenience. To Gwendolen, already shrinking from the prospect opened to her, such phrases came like the growing heat of a burning-glass—not at all as the links of persuasive reflection which they formed for the good uncle. She began desperately to seek an alternative.
"There was another situation, I think, mamma spoke of?" she said, with determined self-mastery.
"Yes," said the Rector, in rather a depreciatory tone; "but that is in a school. I should not have the same satisfaction in your taking that. It would be much harder work, you are aware, and not so good in any other respect. Besides, you have not an equal chance of getting it."
"Oh dear no," said Mrs Gascoigne, "it would be much harder for you, my dear—much less appropriate. You might not have a bedroom to yourself." And Gwendolen's memories of school suggested other particulars which forced her to admit to herself that this alternative would be no relief. She turned to her uncle again and said, apparently in acceptance of his ideas—
"When is Mrs Mompert likely to send for me?"
"That is rather uncertain, but she has promised not to entertain any other proposal till she has
