“And you,” said Lady Cecilia; “are not you the great Jaggernaut himself, driving over all in your triumphant chariot of sarcasm, and crushing all the victims in your way?”
This took place with Horace; it put him in spirits, in train, and he fired away at Lady Castlefort, whom he had been flattering à loutrance five minutes before.
“I so admire that acting of sacrifice in your belle cousine to-night! Pasta herself could not do it better. There is a look of ‘Oh, ye just gods! what a victim am I!’ and with those upturned eyes so charming! Well, and seriously it is a sad sacrifice. Fathers have flinty hearts by parental prescription; but husbands—petit Bossus especially—should have mercy for their own sakes; they should not strain their marital power too far.”
“But,” said Lady Cecilia, “it is curious, that one born and bred such an ultra exclusive as Louisa Castlefort, should be obliged after her marriage immediately to open her doors and turn ultra liberale, or an universal suffragist—all in consequence of these mésalliances.”
“True, true,” said Churchill, with a solemn, pathetic shake of the head. “Gentlemen and noblemen should consider before they make these low matches to save their studs, or their souls, or their entailed estates. Whatever be the necessity, there can be no apology for outraging all bienséance. Necessity has no law, but it should have some decency. Think of, bringing upon a foolish elder brother—But we won’t be personal.”
“No, don’t pray, Horace,” said Lady Cecilia, moving on. “But think, only think, my dear Lady Cecilia; think what it must be to be ‘How-d’ye-doed,’ and to be ‘dear sistered’ by such bodies as these in public.”
“Sad! sad!” said Lady Cecilia.
“The old French nobility,” continued Churchill, “used to call these low money-matches, ‘mettre du fumier sur nos terres.’”
“Dirty work at best,” said Lady Cecilia.
“But still,” said Horace, “it might be done with decency if not with majesty.”