tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes.”
“I love to be reminded of the past, Edward—whether it be melancholy or gay, I love to recall it—and you will never offend me by talking of former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be spent—some of it, at least—my loose cash would certainly be employed in improving my collection of music and books.”
“And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the authors or their heirs.”
“No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it.”
“Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life—your opinion on that point is unchanged, I presume?”
“Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear anything to change them.”
“Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see,” said Elinor, “she is not at all altered.”
“She is only grown a little more grave than she was.”
“Nay, Edward,” said Marianne, “ you need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself.”
“Why should you think so!” replied he, with a sigh. “But gaiety never was a part of my character.”
“Nor do I think it a part of Marianne’s,” said Elinor; “I should hardly call her a lively girl—she is very earnest, very eager in all she does—sometimes