“I am so happy as I am.”
“You will be happier when you are quite a slave, and so I shall save you from being snapped up by some country wiseacre, and marry you into our own set.”
“Merchant princes,” suggested Lucy, demurely, having just recovered her breath and what little sauce there was in her.
“Yes, merchant princes—the men of the age—the men who could buy all the acres in the country without feeling it—the men who make this little island great, and a woman happy, by letting her have everything her heart can desire.”
“You mean everything that money can buy.”
“Of course. I said so, didn't I?”
“So, then, you are tired of me in the house?” remonstrated Lucy, sadly.
“No, ingrate; but you will be sure to marry soon or late.”
“No, I will not, if I can possibly help it.”
“But you can't help it; you are not the character to help it. The first man that comes to you and says: 'I know you rather dislike me' (you could not hate anybody, Lucy,) 'but if you don't take me I shall die of a broken fiddlestick,' you will whine out, 'Oh, dear! shall you? Well, then, sooner than disoblige you, here—take me!'”