“They would make undesirable husbands,” he remarked. “Take poor Ludovic, for instance, whose story has, I believe, a little caught your fancy. You think him a very figure of romance, but you would be disappointed in him if ever you met him, I dare say.”
She blushed, and turned her face away. “I do not wish to talk of Ludovic. I do not think of him at all.”
He looked amused. “My dear, is it as bad as that? I should not—I really should not waste a moment’s thought on him. One is sorry for him, one even liked him, but he was nothing but a rather stupid young man, after all.”
She compressed her lips tightly, as though afraid some unguarded words might escape her. He watched her for a moment, and presently said: “Do you know, you look quite cross, cousin? Now, why?”
She replied, keeping her gaze fixed on a blazing log of wood in the grate: “It does not please me that you should suppose I am in love with someone I have never seen. It is a betise.”
“It would be,” he agreed. “Let us by all means banish Ludovic from our minds, and talk, instead, of ourselves. You want certain things, Eustacie, which I could give you.”
“I do not think it.”
“It is nevertheless true. You would like a house in town, and to lead precisely the life I lead. You could not support the thought of becoming Tristram’s wife, because he would expect you to be happy in Berkshire, rearing his children. Now, I should not expect anything so dull of you. Indeed, I should deprecate it. I do not think the domestic virtues are very strong in me. I should require only of my wife that her taste in dress should do me justice.”
“You propose to me a manage de convenance ” said Eustacie, “and I have made up my mind that that is just what I do not want.”
“I proposed to you what I thought might be acceptable. Forget it! I love you.”