I intend to settle
down, at once!' 'Indeed, Horatio?' says he,--(Roman of eye, Bev)
'who is she, pray?' 'The most glorious woman in the world, sir!'
says I. 'Of course,' says he, 'but--which?' This steadied me a
little, Bev, so I took a fresh grip and began again: 'Sir,' says I,
'beauty in itself is a poor thing at best--' 'Therefore,' says my
Roman (quick as a flash, my dear fellow) 'therefore it is just as
well that beauty should not come--entirely empty-handed!' 'Sir,' says
I--(calmly, you'll understand, Bev, but with just sufficient
firmness to let him see that, after all, he was only a father) 'Sir,'
says I, 'beauty is a transient thing at best, unless backed up by
virtue, honor, wisdom, courage, truth, purity, nobility of soul--'
'Horatio,' says my father (pulling me up short, Bev) 'you do well to
put these virtues first but, in the wife of the future Earl of
Bamborough, I hearken for such common, though necessary attributes
as birth, breeding, and position, neither of which you have yet
mentioned, but I'm impatient, perhaps, and these come at the end of
your list,--pray continue.' 'Sir,' says I, 'my future wife is above
such petty considerations!' 'Ah!' says my Roman, 'I feared so! She
is then, a--nobody, I presume?' 'Sir--most beautiful girl in all
England,' says I.
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