“He did,” sighed Lucy.
Here the young lady lighted softly on an ottoman, and sank gracefully back with a weary-o'-the-world air; and when she had settled down like so much floss silk, fixing her eye on the ceiling, and doling her words out languidly yet thoughtfully—just above a whisper, “Uncle, darling,” inquired she, “where are the men we have all heard of?”
“How should I know? What men?”
“Where are the men of sentiment, that can understand a woman, and win her to reveal her real heart, the best treasure she has, uncle dear?” She paused for a reply; none coming, she continued with decreasing energy:
“Where are the men of spirit? the men of action? the upright, downright men, that Heaven sends to cure us of our disingenuousness? Where are the heroes and the wits?” (an infinitesimal yawn); “where are the real men? And where are the women to whom such men can do homage without degrading themselves? where are the men who elevate a woman without making her masculine, and the women who can brighten and polish, and yet not soften the steel of manhood—tell me, tell me instantly,” said she, with still greater languor and want of earnestness, and her eyes remained fixed on the ceiling in deep abstraction.
“They are all in this house at this moment,” said Mr. Fountain, coolly.
“Who, dear? I fear I was not attending to you. How rude!!”
“Horrid. I say the men and women you inquire for are all in this house of mine;” and the old gentleman's eyes twinkled.
“Uncle! Heaven forgive you, and—oh, fie!”
“They are, upon my soul.”