“Madam,” said Grounsell, sternly, and fixing his eyes steadily on her as he spoke, “I have ridden for two hours of this morning over part of that tract which is your estate. I have visited more than a dozen—I will not call them houses, but hovels. There was fever in some, ague in others, and want, utter want, in all; and yet I never heard one of the sufferers select himself as the special mark of misfortune, but rather allude to his misery as part of that common calamity to which flesh is heir. 'God help the poor!' was the prayer, and they would have felt ashamed to have invoked the blessing on themselves alone.”
“I must say that if you have been to see people with typhus, and perhaps small-pox, it shows very little consideration to come and visit me immediately after, sir.”
Grounsell's face grew purple, but with a great effort he repressed the reply that was on his lips, and was silent.
“Of course, then, these poor creatures can pay nothing, sir?”
“Nothing, madam.”
“Che bella cosa! an Irish property!” cried she, with a scornful laugh; “and if I mistake not, sir, it was to your kind intervention and influence that I am indebted for this singular mark of my husband's affection?”
“Quite true, madam. I had supposed it to be possible——Just possible—that, by connecting your personal interest with duties, you might be reclaimed from a life of frivolity and idleness to an existence of active and happy utility, and this without any flattering estimate of your qualities, madam.”
“Oh, sir, this is a very needless protest,” said she, bowing and smiling.
“I repeat, madam, that, without any flattering estimate of your qualities, I saw quite enough to convince me that kindness and benevolence were just as easy to you as their opposites.”
“Why, you have become a courtier, sir,” said she, with a smile of sly malice.