“Mary!—what do you mean?”
“Do you really know so little of the sex as to flatter yourself that a lively girl like Edith, with more imagination than wit, would prefer you, who—pardon me, dear cousin—are rather a commonplace sort of personage, to a gay young officer of dragoons? Why, don’t you see that he talks more to her in one hour than you do in four-and-twenty? Are not his manners more fascinating—his attentions more pointed—his looks”—
“Upon my word, Miss Mary!” I exclaimed, “this is going rather too far. Do you mean to say that in point of personal appearance”—
“I do, indeed, George. You know I promised you to be candid.”
“Say no more. I see that you women are all alike. These confounded scarlet coats”—
“Are remarkably becoming; and really I am not sure that in one of them—if it were particularly well made—you might not look almost as well as Roper.”
“I have half a mind to turn postman.”
“Not a bad idea for a man of letters. But why don’t you hunt?”
“I dislike riding.”
“You stupid creature! Edith never will marry you: so you may just as well abandon the idea at once.”