"Why, do you not remember the story of the young lord, pretending to be a country-man, or artist, or something of that kind, and so marrying a young lady—no, not a lady, a poor girl, I mean—and never telling her till he took her home to his grand house?"
"Oh, yes, I do, now you speak of it. Not a bad idea, upon my word—it would be something novel to be certain of exciting a disinterested affection."
Caroline's cheeks tingled—she had never got him so near the subject before.
"Are you one of the sceptics on that point, then?" she enquired.
"No—yes—well, I really do not know—but I am, at times, puzzled to think what makes women marry sometimes so badly, and often with so little consideration."
"Oftener for love than you suppose," said she, leaning over his shoulder, to put a tempting white nub of sugar in his chocolate, suspending it awhile as she held it.
"Perhaps so," he replied, attacking his plate of ham, which she had been thinly slicing for him, with very good appetite.
"I suppose," said she, "having Aston Manor, and its goodly acres, tacked to your other accomplishments, makes you suspicious?"
"Not unjustly so—no—no—I would soon contrive some test by which to try the woman I admired, if I doubted her. Thank you, no more chocolate, I am going."