“Sorry to have the misfortune of displeasing you, Madam,” said the imperturbable Fitzherbert. “Had not the least intention of offence, I assure you—return to the subject. Lord Gillravidge, Madam, is actuated by the best feelings—the utmost desire to be on friendly terms. He only needs to be known to be appreciated. An excellent neighbor, a warm friend—altogether, a remarkable person, is my friend, Lord Gillravidge.”
“Fitz, Fitz!” whispered his young companion, reprovingly.
Mrs. Catherine turned round, and looked at the lad with grave concern, and some interest.
“His Lordship is willing to be perfectly tolerant,” continued Mr. Fitzherbert; “to give way to prejudices, and make allowance for angry feelings—and of course he expects to be as well used in return. ‘Do unto others,’—it is natural that he should look for the same in return.”
Mrs. Catherine waved her hand.
“A lady of refined tastes, such as I have the honor of addressing, must perfectly understand the peculiar feelings and excessive delicacy and retirement of my accomplished friend. Feels himself quite wounded by vulgar intrusion—shrinks, above all things, from public notice—extremely susceptible by nature, and of the most delicate constitution.”
Mrs. Catherine stamped her foot impatiently.
“Is it the Comus of yon crew of transformed cattle that the man ventures to profane such words upon?”
“Sorry to be so misapprehended,” said Mr. Fitzherbert, with an assumption of dignity. “Mere false reports, and vulgar misunderstanding of elegant leisure, and refined amusements—perfectly unfounded, I assure you, Madam. Lord Gillravidge should be judged by his peers, not by a set of barbarous rustics.”
“Be silent, Sir,” said Mrs. Catherine. “I understand well the people of this parish should be judged by their peers, and that is another race than yours. Beware how you lay ill names, in my presence, upon the natives of this soil!”