"But pleasant for you," said Lord Teviot, "to have so many homes to go to; you know we all like to have you, and you will circulate amongst us without the slightest trouble to yourself."
"Yes; but I think I am getting too old now to be the odd man of the family; the dining-out Beaufort. And then, when I come home from one of your well-lit houses, or from my club, it will be very depressing to take out my latch-key, and to find a deplorable little lamp in the hall, which makes the whole house smell greasy; and to have to go tumbling up the dark stairs, to a darker room. I really wish I were married too"; and so saying, he drew his arm-chair almost into the fire, and tried to give a deep sigh.
"But why don't you marry?" said Helen.
"My dear soul, how can I? you can't expect me to go rushing about after all those London girls, who care for nothing but balls, and expect to be danced with, and to be handed to carriages standing miles off; and above all, to have their cloaks found for them. How I loathe a cloakroom, with No. 210 to be looked for, and of course it is underneath all the other wraps, and there are 209 bundles to be moved before one gets at it. No, I mean to eschew balls now I have got into Parliament."
"But there are plenty of girls in the country."
"Vulgar, I fear; and besides, how am I to make acquaintance with them? You can't expect me to go riding about the country, calling at all the neighbours' houses, and asking if the young ladies are at home. No, I do not see how I am to find a wife; but you must all of you set about arranging it. Les grands parents always do, you know, in French novels."
"I very much doubt, Ernest," said Helen, hesitatingly, "whether you would make a good husband. You will excuse me for mentioning it, but you are rather too selfish—I mean self-indulgent."
