“Marriage!” said I to myself.  “Hum!”

“A damnable iniquity,” exclaimed Sir Richard, striding up and down the room again.

“The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne!” said I, rubbing my chin.

“Why, that’s just it,” roared the baronet; “she’s a reigning toast—­most famous beauty in the country, London’s mad over her—­she can pick and choose from all the finest gentlemen in England.  Oh, it’s ‘good-by’ to all your hopes of the inheritance, Peter, and that’s the devil of it.”

“Sir, I fail to see your argument,” said I.

“What?” cried Sir Richard, facing round on me, “d’you think you’d have a chance with her then?”

“Why not?”

“Without friends, position, of money?  Pish, boy! don’t I tell you that every buck and dandy—­every mincing macaroni in the three kingdoms would give his very legs to marry her—­either for her beauty or her fortune?” spluttered the baronet.  “And let me inform you further that she’s devilish high and haughty with it all—­they do say she even rebuffed the Prince Regent himself.”

“But then, sir, I consider myself a better man than the Prince Regent,” said I.

Sir Richard sank into the nearest chair and stared at me openmouthed.

“Sir,” I continued, “you doubtless set me down as an egoist of egoists.  I freely confess it; so are you, so is Mr. Grainger yonder, so are we all of us egoists in thinking ourselves as good as some few of our neighbors and better than a great many.”

“Deuce take me!” said Sir Richard.

“Referring to the Lady Sophia, I have heard that she once galloped her horse up the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral—­”

“And down again, Peter,” added Sir Richard.

“Also she is said to be possessed of a temper,” I continued, “and is above the average height, I believe, and I have a natural antipathy to termagants, more especially tall ones.”

“Termagant!” cried Sir Richard.  “Why, she’s the handsomest woman in London, boy.  She’s none of your milk-and-watery, meek-mouthed misses—­curse me, no!  She’s all fire and blood and high mettle—­a woman, sir glorious—­divine—­damme, sir, a black-browed goddess—­a positive plum!”

“Sir Richard,” said I, “should I ever contemplate marriage, which is most improbable, my wife must be sweet and shy, gentle-eyed and soft of voice, instead of your bold, strong-armed, horse-galloping creature; above all, she must be sweet and clinging—­”

“Sweet and sticky, oh, the devil!  Hark to the boy, Grainger,” cried Sir Richard, “hark to him—­and one glance of the glorious Sefton’s bright eyes—­one glance only, Grainger, and he’d be at her feet—­on his knees—­on his confounded knees, sir!”

“The question is, how do you propose to maintain yourself in the future?” said Mr. Grainger at this point; “life under your altered fortunes must prove necessarily hard, Mr. Peter.”