“Thank you, my dear sister. But you have got a wiser, if not so lively an addition to your society, than your unworthy brother—Pray, who is this Mr. Lovel, whom our old uncle has at once placed so high in his good graces?—he does not use to be so accessible to strangers.”
“Mr. Lovel, Hector, is a very gentleman-like young man.”
“Ay,—that is to say, he bows when he comes into a room, and wears a coat that is whole at the elbows.”
“No, brother; it says a great deal more. It says that his manners and discourse express the feelings and education of the higher class.”
“But I desire to know what is his birth and his rank in society, and what is his title to be in the circle in which I find him domesticated?”
“If you mean, how he comes to visit at Monkbarns, you must ask my uncle, who will probably reply, that he invites to his own house such company as he pleases; and if you mean to ask Sir Arthur, you must know that Mr. Lovel rendered Miss Wardour and him a service of the most important kind.”
“What! that romantic story is true, then?—And pray, does the valorous knight aspire, as is befitting on such occasions, to the hand of the young lady whom he redeemed from peril? It is quite in the rule of romance, I am aware; and I did think that she was uncommonly dry to me as we walked together, and seemed from time to time as if she watched whether she was not giving offence to her gallant cavalier.”
“Dear Hector,” said his sister, “if you really continue to nourish any affection for Miss Wardour”—
“If, Mary?—what an if was there!”
“—I own I consider your perseverance as hopeless.”