Jealousy is sometimes thought to be a proof of love; and, in this point of view, must not all its caprices, absurdities, and extravagances, be graceful, amiable, and gratifying?
A few days after Griselda had satisfied her curiosity, she thus, in the presence of her husband, began to vent her spleen:
“For Heaven’s sake, dear Mrs. Nettleby,” cried she, addressing herself to the new-married widow, who came to return her wedding visit—“for pity’s sake, dear Mrs. Nettleby, can you or any body else tell me what possessed Mr. Granby to marry Emma Cooke?”
“I am sure I cannot tell, for I have not seen her yet.”
“You will be less able to tell after you have seen her, and still less after you have heard her.”
“What, then, she is neither a wit nor a beauty! I’m quite surprised at that; for I thought, to be sure, Mr. Granby, who is such a judge and such a critic, and so nice about female manners, would not have been content without something very extraordinary.”
“Nothing can be more ordinary.”
“Astonishing! but I am quite tired of being astonished at marriages! One sees such strange matches every day, I am resolved never to be surprised at any thing: who can, that lives in the world? But really now I am surprised at Mr. Granby. What! is she nothing?”
“Nothing—absolutely nothing; a cipher; a nonentity.”
“Now really? you do not tell me so,” said Mrs. Nettleby. “Well, I am so disappointed; for I always resolved to take example by Mr. Granby’s wife.”