It was at the lodgings of the Baronet that Lady Laura exclaimed one day,—­

“Marriage is a lottery, certainly, and neither Sir Henry nor Lady Egerton appears to have drawn a prize.”

Here Jane stole from the room.

“Never, sister,” cried the Marquess.  “I will deny that.  Any man can select a prize from your sex, if he only knows his own taste.”

“Taste is a poor criterion, I am afraid,” said Mrs. Wilson, gravely, “on which to found matrimonial felicity.”

“To what would you refer the decision, my dear madam?” inquired the Lady Laura.

“Judgment.”

Lady Laura shook her hear doubtingly.

“You remind me so much of Lord Pendennyss!  Everything he wishes to bring under the subjection of judgment and principles.”

“And is he wrong, Lady Laura?” asked Mrs. Wilson, pleased to find such correct views existed in one of whom she thought so highly.

“Not wrong, my dear madam, only impracticable.  What do you think, Marquess, of choosing a wife in conformity to your principles, and without consulting your tastes?”

Mrs. Wilson shook her head with a laugh, and disclaimed any such statement of the case; but the Marquess, who disliked one of John’s didactic conversations very much, gaily interrupted her by saying—­

“Oh! taste is everything with me.  The woman of my heart against the world, if she suits my fancy, and satisfies my judgment.”

“And what may this fancy of your Lordship be?” said Mrs. Wilson, willing to gratify the trifling.  “What kind of a woman do you mean to choose?  How tall for instance?”

“Why, madam,” cried the Marquess, rather unprepared for such a catechism, and looking around him until the outstretched neck and the eager attention of Caroline Harris caught his eye, when he added with an air of great simplicity—­“about the height of Miss Harris.”

“How old?” asked Mrs. Wilson with a smile.

“Not too young, ma’am, certainly.  I am thirty-two—­my wife must be five or six and twenty.  Am I old enough, do you think, Derwent?” he added in a whisper to the Duke.

“Within ten years,” was the reply.

Mrs. Wilson continued—­

“She must read and write, I suppose?”

“Why, faith,” said the Marquess, “I am not fond of a bookish sort of a woman, and least of all a scholar.”

“You had better take Miss Howard,” whispered his brother.  “She is old enough—­never reads—­and is just the height.”

“No, no, Will,” rejoined the brother.  “Rather too old that.  Now, I admire a woman who has confidence in herself.  One that understands the proprieties of life, and has, if possible, been at the head of an establishment before she is to take charge of mine.”

The delighted Caroline wriggled about in her chair, and, unable to contain herself longer, inquired:—­

“Noble blood of course, you would require, my Lord?”