“Marshire, at any rate, does not seem to possess either!”
“Well, a man must begin at some point, and, at some point, he must change. He admires and respects you, my darling, so we may hardly quarrel with his judgment.”
Sara shrugged her shoulders and turned her glance away from the few carriages filled with invalids or elderly women which were still lingering in the Row.
“Some people,” said she, “are driven by their passions, others, the smaller number, by their virtues. Marshire has asked me to marry him because it is his duty to choose a wife from his own circle. I have no illusions in the matter. Nor, I fancy, has he. We have talked, of course, of love and Platonism till both love and Platonism became a weariness!”
“Very far indeed am I from thinking you just. I have had an extremely kind note from the Duchess.”
“An old tyrant! She wants a daughter-in-law who will play piquet with her in the evenings, and feed her peacocks in the morning. She is tired of poor Miss Wilmington. An old tyrant!”
“She hopes to hear soon when the marriage is to take place. I wish I could tell her the day. I do so long to have it fixed.”
“Dear papa,” she said, with a charming smile, “you are anxious, I see, to be rid of me. I will write to him to-night.”
“And to what effect?”