“Dear Mr. Dorriforth, do not ask me any thing about Miss Milner—when I saw her she was very young: though indeed that is but three months ago, and she can’t be much older now.”
“She is eighteen,” answered Dorriforth, colouring with regret at the doubts which this lady had increased, but not inspired.
“And she is very beautiful, that I can assure you,” said Lady Evans.
“Which I call no qualification,” said Dorriforth, rising from his chair in evident uneasiness.
“But where there is nothing else, let me tell you, beauty is something.”
“Much worse than nothing, in my opinion,” returned Dorriforth.
“But now, Mr. Dorriforth, do not from what I have said, frighten yourself, and imagine your ward worse than she really is—all I know of her, is merely, that she’s young, idle, indiscreet, and giddy, with half a dozen lovers in her suite; some coxcombs, others men of gallantry, some single, and others married.”
Dorriforth started. “For the first time of my life,” cried he with a manly sorrow, “I wish I had never known her father.”
“Nay,” said Mrs. Horton, who expected every thing to happen just as she wished, (for neither an excellent education, the best company, or long experience had been able to cultivate or brighten this good lady’s understanding,) “Nay,” said she, “I am sure, Mr. Dorriforth, you will soon convert her from all her evil ways.”
“Dear me,” returned Lady Evans, “I am sure I never meant to hint at any thing evil—and for what I have said, I will give you up my authors if you please; for they were not observations of my own; all I do is to mention them again.”