“There’s not a princess in Europe to compare with her,” says Esmond.

“In beauty?  No, perhaps not,” answered my lady.  “She is most beautiful, isn’t she?  ’Tis not a mother’s partiality that deceives me.  I marked you yesterday when she came down the stair:  and read it in your face.  We look when you don’t fancy us looking, and see better than you think, dear Harry:  and just now when they spoke about your poems—­you writ pretty lines when you were but a boy—­you thought Beatrix was a pretty subject for verse, did not you, Harry?” (The gentleman could only blush for a reply.) “And so she is—­nor are you the first her pretty face has captivated.  ’Tis quickly done.  Such a pair of bright eyes as hers learn their power very soon, and use it very early.”  And, looking at him keenly with hers, the fair widow left him.

And so it is—­a pair of bright eyes with a dozen glances suffice to subdue a man; to enslave him, and inflame him; to make him even forget; they dazzle him so that the past becomes straightway dim to him; and he so prizes them that he would give all his life to possess ’em.  What is the fond love of dearest friends compared to this treasure?  Is memory as strong as expectancy? fruition, as hunger? gratitude, as desire?  I have looked at royal diamonds in the jewel-rooms in Europe, and thought how wars have been made about ’em; Mogul sovereigns deposed and strangled for them, or ransomed with them; millions expended to buy them; and daring lives lost in digging out the little shining toys that I value no more than the button in my hat.  And so there are other glittering baubles (of rare water too) for which men have been set to kill and quarrel ever since mankind began; and which last but for a score of years, when their sparkle is over.  Where are those jewels now that beamed under Cleopatra’s forehead, or shone in the sockets of Helen?

The second day after Esmond’s coming to Walcote, Tom Tusher had leave to take a holiday, and went off in his very best gown and bands to court the young woman whom his Reverence desired to marry, and who was not a viscount’s widow, as it turned out, but a brewer’s relict at Southampton, with a couple of thousand pounds to her fortune:  for honest Tom’s heart was under such excellent control, that Venus herself without a portion would never have caused it to flutter.  So he rode away on his heavy-paced gelding to pursue his jog-trot loves, leaving Esmond to the society of his dear mistress and her daughter, and with his young lord for a companion, who was charmed, not only to see an old friend, but to have the tutor and his Latin books put out of the way.