“Dear Mrs. Mountstuart!”

“I tell you, I am very fond of Willoughby, but I saw the faults of the boy and see the man’s.  He has the pride of a king, and it’s a pity if you offend it.  He is prodigal in generosity, but he can’t forgive.  As to his own errors, you must be blind to them as a Saint.  The secret of him is, that he is one of those excessively civilized creatures who aim at perfection:  and I think he ought to be supported in his conceit of having attained it; for the more men of that class, the greater our influence.  He excels in manly sports, because he won’t be excelled in anything, but as men don’t comprehend his fineness, he comes to us; and his wife must manage him by that key.  You look down at the idea of managing.  It has to be done.  One thing you may be assured of, he will be proud of you.  His wife won’t be very much enamoured of herself if she is not the happiest woman in the world.  You will have the best horses, the best dresses, the finest jewels in England; and an incomparable cook.  The house will be changed the moment you enter it as Lady Patterne.  And, my dear, just where he is, with all his graces, deficient of attraction, yours will tell.  The sort of Othello he would make, or Leontes, I don’t know, and none of us ever needs to know.  My impression is, that if even a shadow of a suspicion flitted across him, he is a sort of man to double-dye himself in guilt by way of vengeance in anticipation of an imagined offence.  Not uncommon with men.  I have heard strange stories of them:  and so will you in your time to come, but not from me.  No young woman shall ever be the sourer for having been my friend.  One word of advice now we are on the topic:  never play at counter-strokes with him.  He will be certain to out-stroke you, and you will be driven further than you meant to go.  They say we beat men at that game; and so we do, at the cost of beating ourselves.  And if once we are started, it is a race-course ending on a precipice—­over goes the winner.  We must be moderately slavish to keep our place; which is given us in appearance; but appearances make up a remarkably large part of life, and far the most comfortable, so long as we are discreet at the right moment.  He is a man whose pride, when hurt, would run his wife to perdition to solace it.  If he married a troublesome widow, his pamphlet on Suttee would be out within the year.  Vernon Whitford would receive instructions about it the first frosty moon.  You like Miss Dale?”

“I think I like her better than she likes me,” said Clara.

“Have you never warmed together?”

“I have tried it.  She is not one bit to blame.  I can see how it is that she misunderstands me:  or justly condemns me, perhaps I should say.”

“The hero of two women must die and be wept over in common before they can appreciate one another.  You are not cold?”

“No.”

“You shuddered, my dear.”

“Did I?”