I know not why I should be particularly selected from the party, by Sir Thomas Barlowe, to listen to his encomiums on this nephew. From the most insignificant occurrences, the Baronet has constantly occasion to say—'Ha! Ha! Miss Ashburn, if my nephew Arthur was but come!' If I praised a dish of fruit at table, the nabob's nephew Arthur had certainly done the same thing. Let me speak of walking or riding, let me complain of hail, rain or sunshine, Arthur was still my promised chaperon, the future knight-errant of all my grievances.
'Tell me something,' said I one day to Colonel Ridson, 'of this Mr. Murden, this hope of the family.'
'He is very handsome,' replied the Colonel.
'But is he good?'
'Assuredly.'
'And amiable?'
'Infinitely!'
'And wise?'
'To a miracle, madam,' replied the Colonel.
Good! amiable! wise!—Who could desire more?