'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, starling, 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 anything 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.'