"Well, my dear, I am glad you are come at this moment; here is Mr. Boscawen proposing for Isabel, and no one asks for you: I can't understand it. Perhaps, my love, if you chatted a little more—but you must 'take' in time. Old Boscawen is no great things, only he is so rich; there is no saying when Isabel may be a gay widow."
"Does my sister accept Mr. Boscawen?" asked Anna Maria, in dulcet tones, without replying to her mother's hints.
"She will do so, if she has common sense; but we have sent for her. Your father is to talk to her."
Isabel obeyed the summons, which prayed for her appearance in Lady Wetheral's boudoir. She entered laughing.
"I am sure I know the reason of your summons, papa. Mr. Boscawen has written to you."
"And you will not be so mad as to refuse such an excellent establishment," cried her mother, earnestly.
"Stay, Gertrude; I will not allow Isabel to be influenced."
"He can make any settlement you please, Isabel," continued her mother.
"Gertrude——"
"He is old and ugly, Isabel"—Lady Wetheral rose unconsciously from the sofa in her energy, perfectly deaf to her husband's call to order—"he is old and ugly; but no girl in her senses would refuse such an establishment. You cannot stake a handsome face against a fortune, which will purchase all a woman prizes most. You will be respectable and enviable, for you will command every thing that is covetable in this world!"