“You know very little of grandpapa, Colonel Sewell, that's clear.”
“Are you so sure of that?” asked he, with a dubious-smile.
“I am sure of it, or in speaking of him you would never have used such a word as bully.”
“You mistake me,—mistake me altogether, young lady. I spoke of a class of people who employ certain defects of temper to supply the place of certain gifts of intellect; and if your grandfather, who has no occasion for it, chooses to take a weapon out of their armory, the worse taste his.”
Lucy turned fiercely round, her face flushed, and her lip trembling. An angry reply darted through her mind, but she repressed it by a great effort, and in a faint voice she said, “I hope you left Mrs. Sewell well?”
“Yes, perfectly well, amusing herself vastly. When I saw her last, she had about half a dozen young fellows cantering on either side of her, saying, doubtless, all those pleasant things that you ladies like to hear.”
Lucy shrugged her shoulders, without answering.
“Telling you,” continued he, in the same strain, “that if you are unmarried you are angels, and that if married you are angels and martyrs too; and it is really a subject that requires investigation, how the best of wives is not averse to hearing her husband does not half estimate her. Don't toss your head so impatiently, my dear Miss Lucy; I am giving you the wise precepts of a very thoughtful life.”
“I had hoped, Colonel Sewell, that a very thoughtful life might have brought forth pleasanter reflections.” “No, that is precisely what it does not do. To live as long as I have, is to arrive at a point when all the shams have been seen through, and the world exhibits itself pretty much as a stage during a day rehearsal.”
“Well, sir, I am too young to profit by such experiences, and I will wish you a very good-night,—that is, if I can give no orders for anything you wish.”