“I cannot conceive a greater folly than that of these women, with ample fortune, sacrificing their independence by marriage. The whole world is their own, if they but knew it. They command every source of enjoyment while young, and have all the stereotyped solaces of old age when it comes upon them; and with poodles, parrots, and parasites, mornings of scandal and evenings of whist, eke out a very pretty existence.”
“Dash the whole with a little religion, Abbé,” cried Jekyl, laughing, “and the picture will be tolerably correct.”
“She shall not marry Lord Norwood; that, at least, I can answer for,” said D'Esmonde, not heeding the other.
“It will be difficult to prevent it, Abbé,” said the other, dryly.
“Easier than you think for. Come, Master Jekyl, assume a serious mood for once, and pay attention to what I am about to say. This line of life you lead cannot go on forever. Even were your own great gifts to resist time and its influences, a new generation will spring up with other wants and requirements, and another race will come who knew not Joseph. With all your versatility it will be late to study new models, and acquire a new tongue. Have you speculated, then, I ask you, on this contingency?”
“I 've some thoughts of a 'monkery,'” lisped out Jekyl; “if the good folk could only be persuaded to adopt a little cleanliness.”
“Would not marriage suit you better; a rich widow, titled, well-connected, and good-looking, of fashionable habits, and tastes that resemble your own?”
“There are difficulties in the case,” said Jekyl, calmly.
“State them,” rejoined the Abbé.
“To begin. There is Lady Hester herself,—for, of course, you mean her.”