“And those who build their castles of happiness in the air,” said Belinda, “are they more secure, wiser, or happier?”
“Wiser! I know nothing about that,” said Lady Delacour; “but happier I do believe they are; for the castle-building is always a labour of love, but the foundation of drudgery is generally love’s labour lost. Poor Vincent will find it so.”
“Perhaps not,” said Belinda; “for already his solid good qualities—”
“Solid good qualities!” interrupted Lady Delacour: “I beg your pardon for interrupting you, but, my dear, you know we never fall in love with good qualities, except, indeed, when they are joined to an aquiline nose—oh! that aquiline nose of Mr. Vincent’s! I am more afraid of it than of all his solid good qualities. He has again, I acknowledge it, much the advantage of Clarence Hervey in personal accomplishments. But you are not a woman to be decided by personal accomplishments.”
“And you will not allow me to be decided by solid good qualities,” said Belinda. “So by what must I be determined?”
“By your heart, my dear; by your heart: trust your heart only.”
“Alas!” said Belinda, “how many, many women have deplored their having trusted to their hearts only.”
“Their hearts! but I said your heart: mind your pronouns, my dear; that makes all the difference. But, to be serious, tell me, do you really and bona fide, as my old uncle the lawyer used to say, love Mr. Vincent?”
“No,” said Belinda, “I do not love him yet.”
“But for that emphatic yet, how I should have worshipped you! I wish I could once clearly understand the state of your mind about Mr. Vincent, and then I should be able to judge how far I might indulge myself in raillery without being absolutely impertinent. So without intruding upon your confidence, tell me whatever you please.”