Agnes. All the better if it does. He is not conceited enough, and so I always tell him.
Lucy. But may it not make him worldly? May he not, after a time, regret his proposal to you if he sees a chance of making a more advantageous——
Agnes. Impossible. What a dreadful opinion you must have of mankind. You don't think it really, I know. I have never heard you say or hint anything nasty about anybody before.
Lucy. I only do it for your own good, my dear. I once knew a man—just such another as you describe Mr. Reddell to be. He was an author, too, and—and when I knew him his first book was also just about to appear. He was engaged to be married to—to quite a nice girl too, although she was never so pretty as you are.
Agnes. Who is the flatterer now?
Lucy. The book was published. It was a great success. He became quite the lion of the season—it is many years ago now. The wedding-day was definitely fixed. Two months before the date he suggested a postponement—for six months.
Agnes. How horrible!
Lucy. And just about the time originally fixed upon for the wedding she received a letter from him—he was abroad at the time—suggesting that their engagement had better be broken off.
Agnes. Oh, the brute! the big brute! But she didn't consent, did she?
Lucy. Of course. The man she had loved was dead. The new person she was indifferent to.