to them, and we sigh for society because we cannot expect it. "Really in England a man must be married or he is lost," said Lord Meersbrook, in self-condoling accents, and with a woeful elongation of visage. "I will step over the way and see if I can find any work on the subject:—that may be done."
By the help of an umbrella this was effected, and half a dozen books chosen, not one of which, however, had reference to the last thought in his lordship's mind, (unless dear Emma Roberts's civil wars of the roses may be thought akin to love and marriage,) his trip across the straits, as Arthur might have termed it, answered a better purpose, it gave him something to think about.
An old woman, with a basket on her arm, and a shabby cloak shrouding her person, was standing in the entrance of the door, and so absorbed in the answers she received, that the servant of the house was obliged to tell her twice to go away before she obeyed, and it was then done with little attention to the information that my lord was coming in, as she departed, muttering, "every one of 'em away, every one, bad luck to me it is alltogither."
Lord Meersbrook had remarked the same woman a day or two before, peering into the area, as if looking for some of the servants, yet neither venturing to ring nor knock; he concluded she was there for no good, but the self-commiserating tone in which she spoke, together with her Irish accent, now caught his ear;
