"Mr. Stanbury's income is sure. I don't know why it shouldn't be sure. He goes on writing and writing every day, and it seems to me that of all professions in the world it is the finest. I'd much sooner write for a newspaper than be one of those old musty, fusty lawyers, who'll say anything that they're paid to say."
"My dearest Nora, all that is nonsense. You know as well as I do that you should not marry a man when there is a doubt whether he can keep a house over your head;—that is his position."
"It is good enough for me, mamma."
"And what is his income from writing?"
"It is quite enough for me, mamma. The truth is I have promised, and I cannot go back from it. Dear, dear mamma, you won't quarrel with us, and oppose us, and make papa hard against us. You can do what you like with papa. I know that. Look at poor Emily. Plenty of money has not made her happy."
"If Mr. Glascock had only asked you a week sooner," said Lady Rowley, with a handkerchief to her eyes.
"But you see he didn't, mamma."
"When I think of it I cannot but weep"—and the poor mother burst out into a full flood of tears—"such a man, so good, so gentle, and so truly devoted to you."
"Mamma, what's the good of that now?"
"Going down all the way to Devonshire after you!"