The novel's set-up is particularly interesting: over the first six chapters or so, we are introduced to one married couple (a Dissenting minister and his wife, with a rich Marylebone congregation) and three widowers, with all these figures being unsatisfactory in some way: venal and social-climbing, in the case of the couple; ineffectual, in the case of a reduced country aristocrat; and then either thumpingly coarse (Copperhead, a railway magnate) or selfish, needlessly refined and self-deceiving (May, a Carlingford parson). The other seven principal characters are their children, none older than thirty or younger than eighteen. The novel's question is how the young people can navigate the marriage-market without being hamstrung by their parents' poverty, corrupted by their worldliness, or vitiated or rendered useless by their superfluous wealth.
The story resolves into an account of the courtship, and choices in marriage, of two women close in age, but very different. Ursula, the put-upon, often petulant daughter of the country town priest, has to fill the offices of her father's late wife in caring for five younger children--sewing, darning, directing one maid-of-all-work, learning to cook sophisticated 'entrees' (unsuccessfully). The key, her unsympathetic father says, is apparently making a good sauce. She has no conception of sex, and is surprised to find herself loved by her family's notional adversary in matters of religion. Phoebe, the more obvious heroine, is startlingly self-possessed and accomplished, and faces the nicer conscious decisions. She comes to Ursula's Carlingford at her mother's bidding to care for her chronically ill, embarrassingly rustic grandmother--and prevent her mother's go-getting sister-in-law, a dairy shop keeper, from monopolising the inheritance. She has known the bragging magnate Copperhead's son Clarence all her life, and is fond of him, as one might be someone palpably more hopeless, more dunderheaded or stuffed full of straw, than oneself. He is one of her potential beaux in the town, and another is the finer, poorer and more interesting son of the Church of England priest.
The darker plotline concerns May's forgery of a bill, rather than face the dishonour of exposing an easily manipulated congregant of his, a flour seller, to ruin, or grasp the need of having to check his expenditure on wine, comforts and a new bookcase (which he buys virtually in a fugue state of headiness and complacency). Oliphant is developing an argument about Christian charity, and how his cuts across dogmatic denominational lines; but the more serious analysis is of wealth, its power and its inextricability from respectability, indeed from any 'profession' or career open to a woman.