“Who?”
“And one who has promised to present me at court next winter.”
“My dearest child! is it possible that you mean me?”
“I do;—and why not?”
“Why not! My sweet love, do you consider my age?”
“But you look so young.”
“To be sure Mrs. Dutton looks older, and is older; but I could not bring myself, especially after being a widow so long, to think of marrying a young man—to be sure, your brother is not what one should call a very young man.”
“Dear, no; you don’t look above three, or four, or five years older than he does; and in public, and with dress, and rouge, and fashion, and all that, I think it would do vastly well, and nobody would think it odd at all. There’s Lady ——, is not she ten years older than Lord ——? and every body says that’s nothing, and that she gives the most delightful parties. Oh, I declare, dearest Mrs. Beaumont, you must and shall marry my brother, and that’s the only way to make him amends, and prevent mischief between the gentlemen; the only way to settle every thing charmingly—and I shall so like it—and I’m so proud of its being my plan! I vow, I’ll go and write to my brother this minute, and—”
“Stay, you dear mad creature; only consider what you are about.”
“Consider! I have considered, and I must and will have my own way,” said the dear mad creature, struggling with Mrs. Beaumont, who detained her with an earnest hand. “My love,” said she, “I positively cannot let you use my name in such a strange way. If your brother or the world should think I had any share in the transaction, it would be so indelicate.”