Even Miss Meagrim, whom she nursed through the jaundice, and who, with returning health, and a fresh accession of hideousness, confessed she owed her life to Miss DelavalвЂ™s care, owned that she could not make her out and truth to tell, both that inquisitive lady and the formidable Miss Primrose herself, were a little afraid of their stately assistant, with her classical beauty and her calm, sad face. She continued to wear her mourning-dress for years after the usual term that filial affection imposes, and with that mourning she seemed to bear about with her the continual memory, almost the companionship, of her dead mother. She was kind and courteous to all, but she made no confidences, and had no female friend. The girl seemed to live in a separate world of her own, apart from the common pleasures and foibles of her sex. Now, even Miss Primrose could not help remarking that, notwithstanding the open admiration Mary Delaval everywhere excited, no London beauty of half-a-dozen seasons could have accepted the homage due to her charms with greater coldness and carelessness than did the junior assistant. Well, it had softened her character, for naturally she was a strong-minded woman and the pretty gipsies over whom she presided little thought how much that austere lady sympathised with all the innocent вЂњ espiГЁgleriesвЂќ and girlish follies she thought it right to rebuke so severely.

Miss Primrose did not look like a heroine yet she, too, had had her romance.

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