“Altogether, your problem appears to have been deprived of all its conditions,” observed Fillmore, who with Philip Lancaster, had approached during the discussion.
“A man who really loves one woman, finds in her all that is worth loving in all women,” Lancaster said.
“A poet’s eyes,” remarked the Marquise, “create, in the woman he loves, nine-tenths of what he sees there.”
“And may blind him, for a time, to nine-tenths more,” was the poet’s reply; at which every one laughed except Mrs. Lockhart and Mr. Grant, but which very few understood.
After this, the company readjusted itself: the Marquise made Philip sit down and talk to her and Marion; and the three gradually got on very good terms with one another. Meanwhile, Sir Francis improved his opportunity to buttonhole Fillmore, and drew him into the next room, where Mr. Thomas Bendibow was sitting, still in the sulks, behind a large pot of azaleas in the embrasure of the window.
“What did I tell you?” exclaimed the baronet, hushing his voice, but with a vehement gesture. “Did you ever see anything like that fellow’s assurance? Damn him, he was tête-à-tête with her for half an hour. Ten to one he’s told her the whole thing.”
“What thing?” inquired Fillmore composedly.
“Why, that he’s her father, and—”
“Well, since he is her father, I know of no law to prevent him saying so.”
“Damme, no, if that were all: but how do I know what pack of lies he may have been telling her about me—”