“I am sorry to hear this, sir. My sister ought to have no will but yours.”
“Why, that is better,” replied the baronet, rubbing his hands cheerfully. “Hang it, how like?” he exclaimed, looking at him once more. “You resemble me confoundedly, Tom—at least in person; and if you do in mind and purpose, we'll harmonize perfectly. Well, then, I have a thousand questions to ask you, but I will have time enough for that again; in the meantime, Tom, what's your opinion of life—of the world—of man, Tom, and of woman? I wish to know what kind of stuff you're made of.”
“Of life, sir—why, that we are to take the most we can out of it. Of the world—that I despise it. Of man—that every one is a rogue when he's found out, and that if he suffers himself to be found out he's a fool; so that the fools and the rogues have it between them.”
“And where do you leave the honest men, Tom?”
“The what, sir?”
“The honest men.”
“I'm not acquainted, sir, nor have I ever met a man who was, with any animal of that class. The world, sir, is a moral fiction; a mere term in language that represents negation.”
“Well, but woman?”
“Born to administer to our pleasure, our interest, or our ambition, with no other purpose in life. Have I answered my catechism like a good boy, sir?”
“Very well, indeed, Tom. Why, in your notions of life and the world, you seem to be quite an adept.”