"Nature never framed a woman's heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice:
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak."
Shakspeare.
The gentleman so addressed put down an untasted glass of wine with which he was about to give zest to his luncheon, and he looked towards the lady who spoke. She was reading a newspaper.
"Did you observe this?" she continued. "We regret to announce the death of Henry Trevethlan, Esq., of Trevethlan Castle!"
"My poor nephew!" exclaimed the gentleman.
The lady flung a glance upon him, which made him lower his eyes, and read on. "He is succeeded in his estates—his estates!—by his son Randolph Trevethlan, Esq., who, with his sister, is now at the castle."
Mr. Pendarrel, probably thinking of the look which had just rebuked him, made no further observation.
"Have you nothing to remark upon this intelligence?" asked his wife. "No commiseration for your great nephew and niece, as well as their father?"
"They must be very poor," her husband answered. "Anything I can do—"
"Anything you can do, Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel!" the lady exclaimed, interrupting him sharply. "You must buy me the castle, and they may live on the price.