"I have not," stoutly maintains Harriet. "Of course, there must be exceptions, but I believe there is a great deal of goodness among us all in spite of popular opinion. Why do you look so supercilious, Marmaduke? Don't you agree with me?"
"No, I do not," replies 'Duke, promptly. "I think there is very little real goodness going. Taking the general mass, I believe them to be all alike bad. Of course, there is a great deal in training, and some appear better than others, simply because they are afraid of being found out. That is the principal sin in this life. I don't deny that here and there one finds two or three whose nature is tinged with the divine; these reach nearer the heavens, and are the exceptions that prove my rule."
"My dear 'Duke, how shockingly uncharitable!" says his sister, slowly; while I, gazing on my husband with open-eyed amazement, wonder vaguely if last night's disturbance has occasioned this outbreak.
"It is uncharitable always to speak the truth," says 'Duke, with a faint sneer. "You asked me my opinion, and I gave it. Are you acquainted with many beautiful characters, Harry? I confess I know none. Selfishness is our predominant quality; and many of the so-called religious ones among us are those most deeply impregnated with this vice. They follow their religion through fear, not love, because they dread consequences, and object to being uncomfortable hereafter, so do what their hearts loathe through mere selfish terror."
"I had no idea you could be so eloquent," laughs Lady Blanche, mockingly from her low seat. "Pray, go on Marmaduke; I could listen to you forever. You are positively refreshing after so much amiability."
"My dear fellow, you grow bearish," expostulates Sir Mark, with raised brows and an amused glance. "We wither beneath your words. Abuse yourself as much as you please, but do spare the rest of us. We like to think ourselves perfection; it is very rude of you to undeceive us so brusquely. And how can you give utterance to such sweeping assertions in such company? Have you forgotten your wife is present?"
"No"—with a forced smile—"I have not. But I fear even Mrs. Carrington cannot be considered altogether harmless." He points this remark with a curiously unloving expression cast in my direction.
"Never mind, Mrs. Carrington," exclaims Thornton, with his usual vivacity. "At all events you may count upon one devoted admirer, as I, for my part, do not believe you have a fault in the world."
"Thank you," I answer gayly, though secretly I am enraged at Marmaduke's look and tone. "Thank you very much, Mr. Thornton. I consider myself fortunate in having secured your good opinion. But, Marmaduke"—addressing him with the utmost coolness—"how uncivil you can be! I say nothing of my own feelings I know I am hopelessly wicked; but your guests, what must they think? Take Lady Blanche, for instance: is she not looking the very picture of innocence, though no doubt speechless with indignation? Surely you will exonerate her?."
"No, not even Blanche," replies Marmaduke; but even as he condemns her he bends upon her one of his very sweetest smiles.