"Do I like Miss Vincent?" repeated Lady Emily, when she had turned a critical corner in the leafy edging of a scroll. "I wonder how often you will make me tell you that I think her a very—no, Allan, the light peacock, please—not that dark shade—very sweet girl—bright, unaffected——"
"And exquisitely lovely," interjected her son, as he handed her the needleful of silk.
"Ah, there you exaggerate awfully. She is certainly a pretty girl; but her nose is—well, I hardly know how to describe it; but there is a fault somewhere in the nose, and her mouth might be smaller; but, on the other hand, she has fine eyes. Her manners are really charming—that pretty little Parisian air which is so fascinating in a high-bred Parisian. But, oh, Allan! can you really mean to marry her?"
"I really mean to try my hardest to achieve that happiness, and I shall think myself the luckiest man in Wiltshire, or in England, or in Europe, if I succeed."
"But, Allan, have you reflected seriously? She tells me that she is a Roman Catholic."
"If she were a Fire-worshipper, I would run the risk of failure in converting her to Christianity. If she were a Buddhist, I should be inclined to embrace the faith of Gautama; but since she is only a conformer to a more ancient form of religion of which you and I are followers, I don't see why her creed should be a stumbling-block to my bliss."
Lady Emily shook her head sagely, and breathed a profound sigh.
"Differences of religion are so apt to make unhappiness in married life."
"I am not religious enough to distress myself because my wife believes in some things that are incredible to me. We shall both follow the same Master, both hope for reunion in the same heaven."
"Allan, she believes in Purgatory. Think how inconsistent your ideas of the future must be."