“So is a hare when it comes into a trap,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, sharply, drawing upon a limited knowledge of grammar and field-sports.
“No—Uncle Fountain really loves me.”
“As much as I do?” asked the lady, with a treacherous smile.
“Very nearly,” was the young courtier's reply. She went on to console her aunt's unselfish solicitude, by assuring her that Font Abbey was not a solitude; that dinners and balls abounded, and her uncle was invited to them all.
“You little goose, don't you see? all those invitations are for your sake, not his. If we could look in on him now we should find him literally in single cursedness. Those county folks are not without cunning. They say beauty has come to stay with the beast; we must ask the beast to dinner, so then beauty will come along with him.
“What other pleasure awaits you at Font Abbey?”
“The pleasure of giving pleasure,” replied Lucy, apologetically.
“Ah! that is your weakness, Lucy. It is all very well with those who won't take advantage; but it is the wrong game to play with all the world. You will be made a tool of, and a slave of, and use of. I speak from experience. You know how I sacrifice myself to those I love; luckily, they are not many.”
“Not so many as love you, dear.”
“Heaven forbid! but you are at the head of them all, and I am going to prove it—by deeds, not words.”