"And you still short of forty! You were easily satisfied, Peter."
"Forgive me, but you would speak with more authority on that point did you know what my ambitions were. Accident gratified my penultimate desire two months ago. To achieve the supreme place at the Wool Manufactory was impossible by my own act, because a human life stood between; but my uncle perished; and now the thing I thought would be so sweet proves otherwise. 'Tis a sermon on the futility of human ambition."
"He was unfortunate in his wife. You must keep that sad story for the drawing-room. Annabel is most anxious to hear it. And your last ambition is Grace?"
"She is, indeed. She will, at least, exceed my highest hope."
"Her mother presses for a season in town."
"'Tis but natural that Mrs. Malherb should do so. Then 'farewell, a long farewell' to Peter Norcot.
"'And too, too well the fair vermilion knew
And silver tincture of her cheeks, that drew
The love of every swain.'
You don't read Marlowe?"
"You have my word. She might marry a Duke for that matter; but would a Duke make me a present of his firstborn son?"
"One may answer with absolute certainty that he would not, Mr. Malherb. In fact, the constitution of the realm—She is, however, of the stuff that Duchesses are made; I know that perfectly; while I can never hope to be more than a plain man—perhaps a knight and a member of Parliament, if all goes well—yet——"