“So would I,” cried Lord Colambre.
“I am glad to hear you say so, my lord, and with such energy; so few young men of the present day look to what I call good connexion. In marrying, a man does not, to be sure, marry his wife’s mother; and yet a prudent man, when he begins to think of the daughter, would look sharp at the mother; ay, and back to the grandmother too, and along the whole female line of ancestry.”
“True—most true—he ought—he must.”
“And I have a notion,” said the count, smiling, “your lordship’s practice has been conformable to your theory.”
“I!—mine!” said Lord Colambre, starting, and looking at the count with surprise.
“I beg your pardon,” said the count; “I did not intend to surprise your confidence. But you forget that I was present, and saw the impression which was made on your mind by a mother’s want of a proper sense of delicacy and propriety—Lady Dashfort.”
“Oh, Lady Dashfort! she was quite out of my head.”
“And Lady Isabel?—I hope she is quite out of your heart.”
“She never was in it,” said Lord Colambre. “Only laid siege to it,” said the count. “Well, I am glad your heart did not surrender at discretion, or rather without discretion. Then I may tell you, without fear or preface, that the Lady Isabel, who talks of ‘refinement, delicacy, sense,’ is going to stoop at once, and marry—Heathcock.” Lord Colambre was not surprised, but concerned and disgusted, as he always felt, even when he did not care for the individual, from hearing any thing which tended to lower the female sex in public estimation.
“As to myself,” said he, “I cannot say I have had an escape, for I don’t think I ever was in much danger.”