Lyndon laughed as usual; but somewhat disconcertedly:  indeed I had clearly the best of him in the argument, and had just as much right to hunt my fortune as he had.

But one day he said, ’If you marry such a woman as my Lady Lyndon, mark my words, you will regret it.  You will pine after the liberty you once enjoyed.  By George!  Captain Barry,’ he added, with a sigh, ’the thing that I regret most in life—­perhaps it is because I am old, blase, and dying—­is, that I never had a virtuous attachment.’

‘Ha! ha! a milkmaid’s daughter!’ said I, laughing at the absurdity.

’Well, why not a milkmaid’s daughter?  My good fellow, I was in love in youth, as most gentlemen are, with my tutor’s daughter, Helena, a bouncing girl; of course older than myself’ (this made me remember my own little love-passages with Nora Brady in the days of my early life), ’and do you know, sir, I heartily regret I didn’t marry her?  There’s nothing like having a virtuous drudge at home, sir; depend upon that.  It gives a zest to one’s enjoyments in the world, take my word for it.  No man of sense need restrict himself, or deny himself a single amusement for his wife’s sake:  on the contrary, if he select the animal properly, he will choose such a one as shall be no bar to his pleasure, but a comfort in his hours of annoyance.  For instance, I have got the gout:  who tends me?  A hired valet, who robs me whenever he has the power.  My wife never comes near me.  What friend have I?  None in the wide world.  Men of the world, as you and I are, don’t make friends; and we are fools for our pains.  Get a friend, sir, and that friend a woman—­a good household drudge, who loves you.  That is the most precious sort of friendship; for the expense of it is all on the woman’s side.  The man needn’t contribute anything.  If he’s a rogue, she’ll vow he’s an angel; if he’s a brute, she will like him all the better for his ill-treatment of her.  They like it, sir, these women.  They are born to be our greatest comforts and conveniences; our—­our moral bootjacks, as it were; and to men in your way of life, believe me such a person would be invaluable.  I am only speaking for your bodily and mental comfort’s sake, mind.  Why didn’t I marry poor Helena Flower, the curate’s daughter?’

I thought these speeches the remarks of a weakly disappointed man; although since, perhaps, I have had reason to find the truth of Sir Charles Lyndon’s statements.  The fact is, in my opinion, that we often buy money very much too dear.  To purchase a few thousands a year at the expense of an odious wife, is very bad economy for a young fellow of any talent and spirit; and there have been moments of my life when, in the midst of my greatest splendour and opulence, with half-a-dozen lords at my levee, with the finest horses in my stables, the grandest house over my head, with unlimited credit at my banker’s, and—­Lady Lyndon to boot, I have wished myself back a private