"Oh yes,—how should one not like him?"
"How indeed! He is the finest, noblest youth that ever my eyes rested on, and so like the Lovels."
"Was my father like that?"
"Yes indeed, in the shape of his face, and the tone of his voice, and the movement of his eyes; though the sweetness of the countenance was all gone in the Devil's training to which he had submitted himself. And you too are like him, though darker, and with something of the Murrays' greater breadth of face. But I can remember portraits at Lovel Grange,—every one of them,—and all of them were alike. There never was a Lovel but had that natural grace of appearance. You will gaze at those portraits, dear, oftener even than I have done; and you will be happy where I was,—oh—so miserable!"
"I shall never see them, mamma."
"Why not?"
"I do not want to see them."
"You say you like him?"
"Yes; I like him."
"And why should you not love him well enough to make him your husband?"