She could not repress a smile, but said with as much severity as she could muster: “It is no laughing matter. You are no longer in your first youth, and you know as well as I do that it is your duty to think seriously of marriage.”
“Strange,” mused Sir Richard, “that one’s duty should be invariably so disagreeable.”
“I know,” said George, heaving a sigh. “Very true! very true indeed!”
“Pooh! nonsense! What a coil you make of a simple matter!” Louisa said. “Now, if I were to press you to marry some romantical miss, always wanting you to make love to her, and crying her eyes out every time you chose to seek your amusements out of her company, you might have reason to complain. But Melissa—yes, an iceberg, George, if you like, and what else, pray, is Richard?—Melissa, I say, will never plague you in that way.”
Sir Richard’s eyes dwelled inscrutably upon her face for a moment. Then he moved to the table and poured himself out another glass of Madeira.
Louisa said defensively: “Well, you don’t wish her to cling about your neck, I suppose?”
“Not at all.”
“And you are not in love with any other woman, are you?”
“I am not.”
“Very well, then! To be sure, if you were in the habit of falling in and out of love, it would be a different matter. But, to be plain with you, you are the coldest, most indifferent, selfish creature alive, Richard, and you will find in Melissa an admirable partner.”