“I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches, and every word he says. I love all his looks, and all his actions, and him entirely and altogether. There now!”
“And why?”
“Nay; you are making a jest of it: it is exceedingly ill-natured! It’s no jest to me!” said the young lady, scowling, and turning her face to the fire.
“I’m very far from jesting, Miss Catherine,” I replied. “You love Mr. Edgar because he is handsome, and young, and cheerful, and rich, and loves you. The last, however, goes for nothing: you would love him without that, probably; and with it you wouldn’t, unless he possessed the four former attractions.”
“No, to be sure not: I should only pity him—hate him, perhaps, if he were ugly, and a clown.”
“But there are several other handsome, rich young men in the world: handsomer, possibly, and richer than he is. What should hinder you from loving them?”
“If there be any, they are out of my way: I’ve seen none like Edgar.”
“You may see some; and he won’t always be handsome, and young, and may not always be rich.”
“He is now; and I have only to do with the present. I wish you would speak rationally.”
“Well, that settles it: if you have only to do with the present, marry Mr. Linton.”
“I don’t want your permission for that—I shall marry him: and yet you have not told me whether I’m right.”