“Before I say one word more of my own affairs, let me, my dearest child, assure you, that in the midst of all these disappointments and mortifications about Amelia, I am supported by the hope—by something more than the hope—that I shall see the daughter of my heart happily settled soon: Lightbody does not want penetration, I see. But I am not at liberty to say more. So now, my dear, help me with all your cleverness to consider what I shall do in the difficulties I am in at this moment. Your brother has a letter of mine, approving, and so forth, his addresses to my daughter; now, if he, in the first rashness of his anger, should produce this to Palmer, I’m undone—or to my son, worse and worse! there would be a duel between them infallibly, for Beaumont is so warm on any point of honour—Oh, I dread to think of it, my dear!”
“So do I, I’m sure; but, Lord, I’m the worst person to think in a hurry—But can’t you write a letter? for you always know what to say so well—And after all, do you know, I don’t think he’ll be half so angry or so disappointed as you fancy, for I never thought he was so much in love with Amelia.”
“Indeed!”
“I know, if it was not a secret, I could tell you—”
“What? No secrets between us, my darling child.”
“Then I can tell you, that just before he proposed for Amelia, he was consulting with me about proposing for Mrs. Dutton.”
“Mrs. Dutton, the widow! Mrs. Dutton! How you astonish me!” said Mrs. Beaumont (though she knew this before). “Why she is older than I am.”
“Older! yes, a great deal; but then you know my brother is no chicken himself.”
“To be sure, compared with you, my dear, he is not young. There’s a prodigious difference between you.”
“Above twenty years; for, you know, he’s by another marriage.”