“But I care not for the world, Thomas; it is not my idol—­I do not worship it, nor shall I ever do so.  I wish to guide myself by the voice of my own conscience, by a sense of what is right and proper, and by the principles of Christian truth.”

“These doctrines, Lucy, are very well for the closet; but they will neyer do in life, for which they are little short of a disqualification.  Where, for instance, will you find them acted on?  Not by people of sense, I assure you.  Now listen to me.”

“Spare me, if you please, Thomas, the advocacy of such principles.  You occasion me great pain—­not so much on my own account as on yours—­you alarm me.”

“Don’t be alarmed, I tell you; but listen to me, as I said.  Here, now, is this marriage:  you don’t love this Dunroe—­you dislike, you detest him.  Very well.  What the deuce has that to do with the prospects of your own elevation in life?  Think for yourself—­become the centre of your own world; make this Dunroe your footstool—­put him under your foot, I say, and mount by him; get a position in the world—­play your game in it as you see others do; and—­”

“Pray, sir,” said Lucy, scarcely restraining her indignation, “where, or when, or how did you come by these odious and detestable doctrines?”

“Faith, Lucy, from honest nature—­from experience and observation.  Is there any man with a third idea, or that has the use of his eyes, who does not know and see that this is the game of life?  Dunroe, I dare say, deserves your contempt; report goes, certainly, that he is a profligate; but what ought especially to reconcile him to you is this simple fact—­that the man’s a fool.  Egad, I think that ought to satisfy you.”

Lucy rose up and went to the window, where she stood for some moments, her eyes sparkling and scintillating, and her bosom heaving with a tide of feelings which were repressed by a strong and exceedingly difficult effort.  She then returned to the sofa, her cheeks and temples in a blaze, whilst ever and anon she eyed her brother as if from a new point of view, or as if something sudden and exceedingly disagreeable had struck her.

“You look at me very closely, Lucy,” said he, with a confident grin.

“I do,” she replied.  “Proceed, sir.”

“I will.  Well, as I was saying, you will find it remarkably comfortable and convenient in many ways to be married to a fool:  he will give you very little trouble; fools are never suspicious, but, on the contrary, distinguished for an almost sublime credulity.  Then, again, you love this other gentleman; and, with a fool for your husband, and the example of the world before you, what the deuce difficulty can you see in the match?”

Lucy rose up, and for a few moments the very force of her indignation kept her silent; at length she spoke.