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al Tufto’s aide-de-camp. We don’t belong to the line,’ Mrs.
Crawley said, throwing up her head with an air that so en-
chanted her husband that he stooped down and kissed it.
‘Rawdon dear—don’t you think—you’d better get that—
money from Cupid, before he goes?’ Becky continued,
fixing on a killing bow. She called George Osborne, Cupid.
She had flattered him about his good looks a score of times
already. She watched over him kindly at ecarte of a night
when he would drop in to Rawdon’s quarters for a half-hour
before bed-time.
She had often called him a horrid dissipated wretch, and
threatened to tell Emmy of his wicked ways and naughty ex-
travagant habits. She brought his cigar and lighted it for him;
she knew the effect of that manoeuvre, having practised it
in former days upon Rawdon Crawley. He thought her gay,
brisk, arch, distinguee, delightful. In their little drives and
dinners, Becky, of course, quite outshone poor Emmy, who
remained very mute and timid while Mrs. Crawley and her
husband rattled away together, and Captain Crawley (and
Jos after he joined the young married people) gobbled in
silence.
Emmy’s mind somehow misgave her about her friend.
Rebecca’s wit, spirits, and accomplishments troubled her
with a rueful disquiet. They were only a week married, and
here was George already suffering ennui, and eager for oth-
ers’ society! She trembled for the future. How shall I be a
companion for him, she thought—so clever and so brilliant,
and I such a humble foolish creature? How noble it was of
him to marry me—to give up everything and stoop down to

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