"How old?" asked Mrs. Wilson with a smile.
"Not too young, ma'am, certainly. I am thirty-two--my wife must be five or six and twenty. Am I old enough, do you think, Derwent?" he added in a whisper to the Duke.
"Within ten years," was the reply.
Mrs. Wilson continued--
"She must read and write, I suppose?"
"Why, faith," said the Marquess, "I am not fond of a bookish sort of a woman, and least of all a scholar."
"You had better take Miss Howard," whispered his brother. "She is old enough--never reads--and is just the height."
"No, no, Will," rejoined the brother. "Rather too old that. Now, I admire a woman who has confidence in herself. One that understands the proprieties of life, and has, if possible, been at the head of an establishment before she is to take charge of mine."
The delighted Caroline wriggled about in her chair, and, unable to contain herself longer, inquired:--
"Noble blood of course, you would require, my Lord?"