“You can lead a horse to water,” said Cheriton, “but you can’t make him drink.”
Caroline sat with her hands clenched in her lap, the picture of suppressed fury.
“Would it surprise you to learn,” said she, “that George Betterton has made her an offer of marriage?”
“Yes,” said Cheriton, “it would indeed. Either he was in his cups when he made it, or he has since repented of his indiscretion. George is going to marry Priscilla L’Estrange.”
“What is your authority for that statement?” demanded Caroline, warily, for she had a very audacious gaze fixed upon her.
“The authority of my intuitive perception.”
“Intuitive fiddlestick!”
“I know George nearly as well as I know you,” said the audacious suitor. “Had George intended to gobble at the cherry, he would have done so six weeks ago, during your untimely attack of laryngitis. But George is an old hand; and although it takes a seasoned campaigner to marry Priscilla L’Estrange, it is better that he should do so, as far as 216, Piccadilly, is concerned, than that he should marry the penniless daughter of a country parson.”
With shame and trepidation and searching of heart be it written that this couple of elderly worldlings sat into the small hours of the morning discussing the pros and cons of the case in a most indelicate manner, and with a disposition to haggle like a pair of Jews at an auction. The bickering and the bartering of these two elderly persons were enough to overthrow the most resolute idealist among us.
There can be no question that the greater share of the blame belonged to Caroline Crewkerne. Cheriton, who knew her as well as he knew his alphabet, was really far more liberal-minded than she was. He was quite as shrewd also. For all the pretension of this old woman’s trappings, and her lofty airs, and her contempt for all outside the magic circle—and she reserved to herself the exclusive right to perform the geometrical feat of drawing it—at heart she was ruthlessly bourgeoise. Indeed, she was apt to plume herself upon that quality, which, however, she preferred to call by another name. Therefore who shall blame Cheriton for his pious determination to give her a Roland for an Oliver?