Part 6 (2/2)
”Of course I didn't. Can I hear a word these ladies mew? can I tell in what language even they are whining and miauling? I have given up trying this twenty years and more.”
”I return to my question,” said Lucy hastily.
”And I to my solution; your three graces are three d--d fools. If you can account for it in any other way, do.”
”No, uncle dear. If you had happened to agree with me beforehand, I would; but as you do not, I beg to be excused. But keep the paper, and the next time listen to the talk and unmeaning laughter; you will find I have not exaggerated, and some day, dear, I will tell you how my mamma used to account for similar monstrosities in society.”
”Here is a mysterious little toad. Well, Lucy, for all this you enjoyed yourself. I never saw you in better spirits.”
”I am glad you saw that,” said Lucy, with a languid smile.
”And how Talboys came out.”
”He did,” sighed Lucy.
Here the young lady lighted softly on an ottoman, and sank gracefully back with a weary-o'-the-world air; and when she had settled down like so much floss silk, fixing her eye on the ceiling, and doling her words out languidly yet thoughtfully--just above a whisper, ”Uncle, darling,” inquired she, ”where are the men we have all heard of?”
”How should I know? What men?”
”Where are the men of sentiment, that can understand a woman, and win her to reveal her real heart, the best treasure she has, uncle dear?”
She paused for a reply; none coming, she continued with decreasing energy:
”Where are the men of spirit? the men of action? the upright, downright men, that Heaven sends to cure us of our disingenuousness?
Where are the heroes and the wits?” (an infinitesimal yawn); ”where are the real men? And where are the women to whom such men can do homage without degrading themselves? where are the men who elevate a woman without making her masculine, and the women who can brighten and polish, and yet not soften the steel of manhood--tell me, tell me instantly,” said she, with still greater languor and want of earnestness, and her eyes remained fixed on the ceiling in deep abstraction.
”They are all in this house at this moment,” said Mr. Fountain, coolly.
”Who, dear? I fear I was not attending to you. How rude!!”
”Horrid. I say the men and women you inquire for are all in this house of mine;” and the old gentleman's eyes twinkled.
”Uncle! Heaven forgive you, and--oh, fie!”
”They are, upon my soul.”
”Then they must be in some part of it I have not visited. Are they in the kitchen?” (with a little saucy sneer.)
”No, they are in the library.”
”In the lib--Ah! _le malin!”_
”They were never seen in the drawing-room, and never will be.”
”Yet surely they must have lived in nature before they were embalmed in print,” said Lucy, interrogating the ceiling again.
”The nearest approach you will meet to these paragons is Reginald Talboys,” said Fountain, stoutly.
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