’Cousin Beamish, my complaint of these young people is, that they miss their pleasure in pursuing it.  I have lectured my duchess—­’

‘Ha!’

‘Foolish, I own,’ said the duke.  ’But suppose, now, you had caught your butterfly, and you could neither let it go nor consent to follow its vagaries.  That poses you.’

‘Young people,’ said Mr. Beamish, ’come under my observation in this poor realm of mine—­young and old.  I find them prodigiously alike in their love of pleasure, differing mainly in their capacity to satisfy it.  That is no uncommon observation.  The young, have an edge which they are desirous of blunting; the old contrariwise.  The cry of the young for pleasure is actually—­I have studied their language—­a cry for burdens.  Curious!  And the old ones cry for having too many on their shoulders:  which is not astonishing.  Between them they make an agreeable concert both to charm the ears and guide the steps of the philosopher, whose wisdom it is to avoid their tracks.’

’Good.  But I have asked you for practical advice, and you give me an essay.’

’For the reason, duke, that you propose a case that suggests hanging.  You mention two things impossible to be done.  The alternative is, a garter and the bedpost.  When we have come upon crossways, and we can decide neither to take the right hand nor the left, neither forward nor back, the index of the board which would direct us points to itself, and emphatically says, Gallows.’

’Beamish, I am distracted.  If I refuse her the visit, I foresee dissensions, tears, games at ball, romps, not one day of rest remaining to me.  I could be of a mind with your Puritan, positively.  If I allow it, so innocent a creature in the atmosphere of a place like this must suffer some corruption.  You should know that the station I took her from was . . . it was modest.  She was absolutely a buttercup of the fields.  She has had various masters.  She dances . . . she dances prettily, I could say bewitchingly.  And so she is now for airing her accomplishments:  such are women!’

‘Have you heard of Chloe?’ said Mr. Beamish.  ’There you have an example of a young lady uncorrupted by this place—­of which I would only remark that it is best unvisited, but better tasted than longed for.’

’Chloe?  A lady who squandered her fortune to redeem some ill-requiting rascal:  I remember to have heard of her.  She is here still?  And ruined, of course?’

‘In purse.’

‘That cannot be without the loss of reputation.’

’Chloe’s champion will grant that she is exposed to the evils of improvidence.  The more brightly shine her native purity, her goodness of heart, her trustfulness.  She is a lady whose exaltation glows in her abasement.’

‘She has, I see, preserved her comeliness,’ observed the duke, with a smile.