“I wish you would keep your sharp practices for others and spare him,” said she, severely.
“It's very generous of you to say so, mother, considering the way he treats you and talks of you.”
“Sir William and I were ill-met and ill-matched, but that is not any reason that I should like to see him treacherously dealt with.”
“There's no talk of treachery here. I was merely uttering an abstract truth about the value of old papers, and regretting how late I came to the knowledge. There's that bundle of letters of that fool Trafford, for instance, to Lucy. I can't get a divorce on them, it's true; but I hope to squeeze a thousand pounds out of him before he has them back again.”
“I hope in my heart that the world does not know you!” said she, bitterly.
“Do you know, mother, I rather suspect it does? The world is aware that a great many men, some of whom it could ill spare, live by what is called their wits,—that is to say, that they play the game entitled 'Life' with what Yankees call 'the advantages;' and the world no more resents my living by the sharp practice long experience has taught me, than it is angry with this man for being a lawyer, and that one for being a doctor.”
“You know in your heart that Trafford never thought of stealing Lucy's affections.”
“Perhaps I do; but I don't know what were Lucy's intentions towards Trafford.”
“Oh, fie, fie!”
“Be shocked if you like. It's very proper, perhaps, that you should be shocked; but nature has endowed me with strong nerves or coarse feelings, whichever you like to call them, and consequently I can talk of these things with as little intermixture of sentiment as I would employ in discussing a protested bill. Lucy herself is not deficient in this cool quality, and we have discussed the social contract styled Marriage with a charming unanimity of opinion. Indeed, when I have thought over the marvellous agreement of our sentiments, I have been actually amazed why we could not live together without hating each other.”