Harry. Your wife, Fred?
Fred. Yes, my wife. You would not object to that?
Harry. I should, most decidedly.
Fred. How?
Harry. Yes, Fred Hastings: I’d rather see my sister laid in her grave than marry you.
Fred. Harry, you’re crazy!
Harry. Not a bit of it. Look you, Fred. You’re a gay fellow, and with you time flies lightly and merrily. But you’re a rich man’s son. Your purse is always full. You know too much of life. Boy as you are, you can drink as deep as the oldest; you can shake a dice-box as glibly as the most expert, shuffle a pack of cards with the boldest, and bet your money with the fastest. I can very easily tell your future life,—a gay life and a merry one; and, with such a companion, a pure, loving girl like Lucy would be miserable. I know all this; for you have led me into it. So, Fred, say no more about it. Lucy is too good for you ever to dream of.
Fred. Why, Harry, what’s the matter? You have engaged with me in all these sports that you speak of. Do you turn upon me now? Harry, you are not yourself.
Harry. No, I am not. When you came to this school, I was a happy lad who had never heard of this gay life; content to stay at home with my dear sister and Dilly, with but one desire,—to please a father who was very proud of me. You came. New life, new enjoyments, were before me; and, like a thoughtless boy, I plunged into them. Well, I suppose it is one of the phases of life which tempt all; but I wish I had never, never, seen it.