“Well, then, my dear Dunroe, I am anxious you should know that I have had a long conversation with Sir Thomas Gourlay, upon the subject of your marriage with his beautiful and accomplished daughter.”
“Yes, the Black Baronet; a confounded old scoundrel by all accounts.”
“You forget, sir,” said the Earl, sternly, “that he is father to your future wife.”
“Devilish sorry for it, my lord. I wish Lucy was daughter to any one else—but it matters not; I am not going to marry the black fellow, but twelve thousand a year and a pretty girl. I know a prettier, though.”
“Impossible, John,” replied Lady Emily, with enthusiasm. “I really think Lucy Gourlay the most lovely girl I have ever seen—the most amiable, the most dignified, the most,accomplished, the most—dear John, how happy I shall be to call her sister!”
“Dunroe,” proceeded his father, “I beg you consider this affair seriously—solemnly—the happiness of such a girl as Lucy Grourlay is neither to be sported with nor perilled. You will have much to reform before you can become worthy of her. I now tell you that the reformation must be effected, sincerely and thoroughly, before I shall ever give my consent to your union with her. There must be neither dissimulation nor hypocrisy on your part. Your conduct must speak for you, and I must, from the clearest evidence, be perfectly satisfied that in marrying you she is not wrecking her peace and happiness, by committing them to a man who is incapable of appreciating her, or who is insensible to what is due to her great and shining virtues.”
“It would be dreadful, John,” said his sister, “if she should not feel happy. But if John, papa, requires reformation, I am sure he will reform for Lucy's sake.”
“He ought to reform from a much higher principle, my dear child,” replied her father.
“And so he will, papa. Will you not, dear brother?”
“Upon my honor, my lord,” said Dunroe, “I had a conversation this very morning upon the subject with Tom Norton.”