“Well,” said Lothair, blushing deeply, and speaking with much agitation, “I would ask your grace’s permission to offer my hand to your daughter.”
The duchess I looked amazed. “Corisande!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, to Lady Corisande.”
“Corisande,” replied the duchess, after a pause, “has absolutely not yet entered the world. Corisande is a child; and you—you, my dear friend—I am sure you will pardon me If I say, so—you are not very much older than Corisande.”
“I have no wish to enter the world,” said Lothair, with much decision.
“I am not an enemy to youthful marriages,” said the duchess. “I married early myself, and my children married early; and I am very happy, and I hope they are; but some experience of society before we settle is most desirable, and is one of the conditions, I cannot but believe, of that felicity which we all seek.”
“I hate society,” said Lothair. “I would never go out of my domestic circle, if it were the circle I contemplate.”
“My dear young friend,” said the duchess, “you could hardly have seen enough of society to speak with so much decision.”
“I have seen quite enough of it,” said Lothair. “I went to an evening party last season—I came up from Christchurch on purpose for it—and if ever they catch me at another, they shall inflict any penalty they please.”
“I fear it was a stupid party,” said the duchess, smiling, and glad to turn, if possible, the conversation into a lighter vein.