"But you—O Bet, you never really—love him!"
"Of—course—not! What has love to do with marriage, dear aunt? Love-marriages are so unmodish—'tis like plough-boy and dairy-wench—hugging and kissing—faugh, so vulgar and nauseous! Nay, aunt, I desire a marriage à la mode: 'Good-morrow to your ladyship, I trust your ladyship slept well?' A solemn bow, a kiss upon one extreme finger-tip!' O, excellently, sir, I hope you the same.' A smile and gracious curtsey—and so to breakfast. Now Major d'Arcy is a gentleman, rich, sufficiently handsome, and once a husband would be fairly easy to manage! Indeed I might do worse, aunt!"
"But so much—ah, so very much better, girl. There is the Duke of Nairn——"
"A drunken old reprobate! Charles told me that once, being more tipsy than usual he——"
"Hush, miss! He worshipped you. Then there is His Grace of Hawcastle——"
"An addle-pated popinjay!"
"Fie, Betty! Then there is Lord Alvaston, the Marquis, Viscount Merivale and the rest——"
"Aye, but I can't wed 'em all, aunt, so will I wed none!"
"Lud child, here's scandalous talk! But O Betty, what—what of love?"
"True, dear aunt—what?"