“Rivalling Marcus in what, or how?”
“With whom? boy, is the question you should ask; and in that case the answer is—Dunce, can’t you guess now?—Miss Annaly.”
“Miss Annaly!” repeated Harry with genuine surprise, and with a quick sense of inferiority and humiliation. “Oh, sir, you would not be so ill-natured as to make a jest of me!—I know how ignorant, how uninformed, what a raw boy I am. Marcus has been educated like a gentleman.”
“More shame for his father that couldn’t do the same by you when he was about it.”
“But Marcus, sir—there ought to be a difference—Marcus is heir to a large fortune—I have nothing. Marcus may hope to marry whoever he pleases.”
“Ay, whoever he pleases; and who will that be, if women are of my mind?” muttered Corny. “I’ll engage, if you had a mind to rival him—”
“Rival him! the thought of rivalling my friend never entered my head.”
“But is he your friend?” said Cornelius.
“As to that, I don’t know: he was my friend, and I loved him sincerely—warmly—he has cast me off—I shall never complain—never blame him directly or indirectly; but don’t let me be accused or suspected unjustly—I never for one instant had the treachery, presumption, folly, or madness, to think of Miss Annaly.”
“Nor she of you, I suppose, you’ll swear?”