“No, ingrate; but you will be sure to marry soon or late.”

“No, I will not, if I can possibly help it.”

“But you can’t help it; you are not the character to help it.  The first man that comes to you and says:  ‘I know you rather dislike me’ (you could not hate anybody, Lucy,) ’but if you don’t take me I shall die of a broken fiddlestick,’ you will whine out, ’Oh, dear! shall you?  Well, then, sooner than disoblige you, here—­take me!’”

“Am I so weak as this?” asked Lucy, coloring, and the water coming into her eyes.

“Don’t be offended,” said the other, coolly; “we won’t call it weakness, but excess of complaisance; you can’t say no to anybody.”

“Yet I have said it,” replied Lucy, thoughtfully.

“Have you?  When?  Oh, to me.  Yes; where I am concerned you have sometimes a will of your own, and a pretty stout one; but never with anybody else.”

The aunt then inquired of the niece, “frankly, now, between ourselves,” whether she had no wish to be married.  The niece informed her in confidence that she had not, and was puzzled to conceive how the bare idea of marriage came to be so tempting to her sex.  Of course, she could understand a lady wishing to marry, if she loved a gentleman who was determined to be unhappy without her; but that women should look about for some hunter to catch instead of waiting quietly till the hunter caught them, this puzzled her; and as for the superstitious love of females for the marriage rite in cases when it took away their liberty and gave them nothing amiable in return, it amazed her.  “So, aunt,” she concluded, “if you really love me, driving me to the altar will be an unfortunate way of showing it.”

While listening to this tirade, which the young lady delivered with great serenity, and concluded with a little yawn, Mrs. Bazalgette had two thoughts.  The first was:  “This girl is not flesh and blood; she is made of curds and whey, or something else;” the second was:  “No, she is a shade hypocriticaler than other girls—­before they are married, that is all;” and, acting on this latter conviction, she smiled a lofty incredulity, and fell to counting on her fingers all the moneyed bachelors for miles.

At this Lucy winced with sensitive modesty, and for once a shade of vexation showed itself on her lovely features.  The quick-sighted, keen-witted matron caught it, and instantly made a masterly move of feigned retreat.  “No,” cried she, “I will not tease you anymore, love; just promise me not to receive any gentleman’s addresses at Font Abbey, and I will never drive you from my arms to the altar.”

“I promise that,” cried Lucy, eagerly.

“Upon your honor?”

“Upon my honor.”

“Kiss me, dear.  I know you won’t deceive me now you have pledged your honor.  This solemn promise consoles me more than you can conceive.”

“I am so glad; but if you knew how little it costs me.”