"Yes, Ralph Newton."
"How quick he arranges things!" said Clarissa. There was some little emotion, just a quiver, and a quick rush of blood into her cheeks, which, however, left them just as quickly.
"Yes;—he is quick."
"Who is it, papa?"
"A very proper sort of person,—the daughter of a Berkshire baronet."
"But what is her name?"
"Augusta Eardham."
"Augusta Eardham. I hope he'll be happy, papa. We've known him a long time."
"I think he will be happy;—what people call happy. He is not gifted,—or cursed, as it may be,—with fine feelings, and is what perhaps may be called thick-skinned; but he will love his own wife and children. I don't think he will be a spendthrift now that he has plenty to spend, and he is not subject to what the world calls vices. I shouldn't wonder if he becomes a prosperous and most respectable country gentleman, and quite a model to his neighbours."
"It doesn't seem to matter much;—does it?" said Clarissa, when she told the story to Mary and Patience.