There was staying with her at this time a certain Miss Macnulty, who was
related, after some distant fashion, to old Lady Linlithgow, and who was
as utterly destitute of possessions or means of existence as any
unfortunate, well-born, and moderately-educated middle-aged woman in
London. To live upon her friends, such as they might be, was the only mode
of life within her reach. It was not that she had chosen such dependence;
nor, indeed, had she endeavoured to reject it. It had come to her as a
matter of course--either that or the poor-house. As to earning her bread,
except by that attendance which a poor friend gives, the idea of any
possibility that way had never entered her head. She could do nothing--
except dress like a lady with the smallest possible cost, and endeavour to
be obliging. Now, at this moment, her condition was terribly precarious.
She had quarrelled with Lady Linlithgow, and had been taken in by her old
friend Lizzie--her old enemy might, perhaps, be a truer expression--
because of that quarrel. But a permanent home had not even been promised
to her; and poor Miss Macnulty was aware that even a permanent home with
Lady Eustace would not be an unmixed blessing. In her way, Miss Macnulty
was an honest woman.

They were sitting together one May afternoon in the little back drawing-
room in Mount Street. They had dined early, were now drinking tea, and
intended to go to the opera. It was six o'clock, and was still broad day,
but the thick coloured blind was kept across the single window, and the
folding doors of the room were nearly closed, and there was a feeling of
evening in the room. The necklace during the whole day had been so heavy
on Lizzie's heart that she had been unable to apply her thoughts to the
building of that castle in the air in which the Corsair was to reign
supreme, but not alone. "My dear," she said--she generally called Miss
Macnulty my dear--"you know that box I had made by the jewellers."