“I like that good-humoured, blundering boy. He has been paying court to Rose ever since she has been here. He is a young man of independent fortune, irreproachable character, fair education, and most excellent disposition, and he has loved Rose for more than a year. Yet, with all, he is not worthy of her! he wants polish—the polish that nothing but intercourse with refined society can give him. He came to see me last winter in Washington, got fitted out by a fashionable tailor, and I good-naturedly took him with me to an evening party. If ever I do such a thing again as long as I live may——; but never mind! Just think, when I presented him to a superfine belle, of his holding out his hands to shake hands with her, telling her he was glad to see her, and hoping that if ever she passed through his part of the country, she would pay his mother and sisters a visit, &c. And then, when the elegant Mrs. A. inquired if Mr. Bloomfield waltzed, just fancy him blushing furiously, and saying that he would rather not—that he disapproved of waltzing!”
“Well!” said Mrs. Vivian, looking up, after a pause.
“Yes—well?” inquired her companion, raising his eyebrows.
“You have not made a single comment upon my country beau. I see how it is. You’re thinking of your relatives. Mark, you must question me if you want me to tell you anything.”
“My mother”—began the young man.
“She is living very comfortably with her husband at Cashmere.”
“With her husband!”
“Is it possible you did not know she was married, Mark?”
“I never knew it—I never dreamed it—I never thought it possible.” He looked shocked—he was shocked.
“And why not?” asked the lady, with a little jealous petulance. “Why may not a widow remarry?”