“I don't see, Francis, why you should not ask such a simple question yourself. It is no business of mine.”.
“Then you really know nothing of Doctor Urquhart's whereabouts lately? He has not been to Rockmount?”
“No.”
“Nor written?”
“I believe not. Why do you want to know? Have you been quarrelling with him?”
For, aware that they two were not over fond of one another—a sudden idea, so ridiculously romantic that I laughed at it the next minute—made me, for one second, turn quite sick and cold.
“Quarrelling, my dear child—young lady, I mean—am I ever so silly, so ungentlemanly, as to quarrel with anybody? I assure you not. There is the Dee! What a beautiful view this is!”
He began to expatiate on its beauties, with that delicate appreciative taste which he has in such perfection, and in the expression of which he never fails. Under such circumstances, when he really seems pleased—not languidly, but actively, and tries to please others, I grant all Francis's claims to be a charming companion—for an hour's walk. For life—ah! that is a different matter! When with him, I often think of Beatrices answer when Don Pedro asks if she will have him as a husband?—“No, my lord, unless I might have another for working-days. Your Grace is too costly to wear every day.”
Love—fit for constant wear and tear, able to sink safely down
“to the level of every day's