I cannot say with what delight I heard of her disfigurement. It was a malice that warmed my heart like some good news.
“It was Sir Roger, sir, that made the match.”
“How could that be? What could he care about it?”
“Well, sir, he certainly gave Nixon five hundred pounds to go and propose for her, and promise old Pierre his patronage, if he agreed to it.”
“Are you sure of this?” asked I, eagerly.
“Nixon himself told me, sir. I remember he said, 'I haven't much time to lose about it, for the tutor, Mr. Eccles, is quite ready to take her, on the same terms, and Sir Roger doesn't care which of us it is.”
“Nor the lady either, apparently,” said I, half angrily.
“Of course not. Pauline was too well brought up for that.”
I was not going to discuss this point of ethics with Mr. La Grange, and soon fell off into a vein of reflection over early loves, and what they led to, which took me at last miles away from Pauline Delorme, and her fascinations.
I would have liked much to learn what sort of a life my father had led of late: whether he had plunged into habits of dissipation and excess; or whether any feeling of remorse had weighed with him, and that he sorrowed over the misery and the sorrow he had so recklessly shed around him; but I shrunk from questioning a servant on such matters, and merely asked as to his habitual spirits and temper.