When I was a younger man
I was no better (and no worse) than other young men. I'm getting on now
to middle life. I don't want romances and adventures--I want an easy
existence with a nice lovable woman who will make me a good wife. You're
the woman, I tell you again. I know it by what I've seen of you myself,
and by what I have heard of you from Lady Lydiard. She said you were
prudent, and sweet-tempered, and affectionate; to which I wish to add
that you have just the face and figure that I like, and the modest
manners and the blessed absence of all slang in your talk, which I don't
find in the young women I meet with in the present day. That's my view
of it: I think for myself. What does it matter to me whether you're the
daughter of a Duke or the daughter of a Dairyman? It isn't your father I
want to marry--it's you. Listen to reason, there's a dear! We have only
one question to settle before we go back to your aunt. You wouldn't
answer me when I asked it a little while since. Will you answer now?
_Do_ you like me?"
Isabel looked up at him timidly.
"In my position, sir," she asked, "have I any right to like you? What
would your relations and friends think, if I said Yes?"
Hardyman gave her waist a little admonitory squeeze with his arm
"What? You're at it again? A nice way to answer a man, to call him
'Sir,' and to get behind his rank as if it was a place of refuge from
him! I hate talking of myself, but you force me to it. Here is my
position in the world--I have got an elder brother; he is married,
and he has a son to succeed him, in the title and the property.
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