“Why let it be a misunderstanding, George? Beatrice is handsome.”
“Ye-es,” said the young man, gazing down at his paper.
“Well born.”
“I suppose so.”
“Thoroughly intellectual.”
“Let’s see: it’s Byron, isn’t it, who makes ‘hen-pecked-you-all’ rhyme to ‘intellectual’?”
“George!”
“My dear mother.”
“Beatrice is amiable; has a good portion from her late uncle—in fact, taken altogether, a most eligible partie, and I like her very much.”
“But, my dear mother,” said the young squire, “it is a question of my marriage, is it not?”