None of the sentiments which agitated Oswald had escaped Mr Edgermond, and when the Count d’Erfeuil was gone, he said to him—­“My dear Oswald, I take my leave,—­I am going to Naples.”—­“Why so soon?” answered Nelville.  “Because it is not good for me to stay here,” continued Edgermond; “I am fifty years of age, and nevertheless I am not sure that Corinne would not make a fool of me.”—­“And even in that case,” interrupted Oswald, “what would be the consequence?”—­“Such a woman is not formed to live in Wales,” replied Mr Edgermond; “believe me, my dear Oswald, only Englishwomen are fit for England:  it does not become me to give you advice, I need not assure you that I shall not mention a word of what I have seen; but with all Corinne’s accomplishments, I should say, with Thomas Walpole, of what use is all that at home?  And, you know the home is all with us, all for our women at least.  Imagine to yourself your beautiful Italian alone, while you are hunting or attending your duty in Parliament; imagine her leaving you at dessert to get tea ready against you shall leave table!  Dear Oswald, depend upon it our women possess those domestic virtues which are to be found nowhere else.  The men in Italy have nothing to do but to please the women; therefore the more attractive they are the better.  But with us, where men have active pursuits, women must be satisfied with the shade.  That it would be a great pity to condemn Corinne to such a destiny, I freely acknowledge.  I should be glad to see her upon the throne of England; but not beneath my humble roof.  My lord, I knew your mother, whose loss was so much lamented by your worthy father:  she was a lady in every respect like my young cousin.  Such is the wife, which, were I at a proper time of life, I should choose.  Adieu, my dear friend, do not be offended at what I have said, for nobody can be a greater admirer of Corinne than I am, and I own to you that after all were I at your time of life, I doubt whether I could have sufficient fortitude to renounce the hope of becoming agreeable to her.”—­In finishing, these words, he took the hand of Oswald, squeezed it cordially, and departed without receiving a word in reply.  But Mr Edgermond comprehended the cause of his silence, and satisfied with a pressure of the hand from Oswald in answer to his own, he went away, impatient himself to finish a conversation which was painful to him.

Of all that he had said, only one word had penetrated the heart of Oswald, and that was the recollection of his mother, and his father’s profound attachment to her.  He had lost her when he was only fourteen years of age, but he recollected her virtues with the most heart-felt reverence, as well as that timidity and reserve which characterised them.—­“Fool that I am,” cried he, when alone, “I wish to know what kind of wife my father destined for me, and do I not know it, since I can call to mind the image of my mother whom he so tenderly loved?