And I’m well pleased. Ah, cousin! at the old hall,
Among the gallery portraits of our Leighs,
We shall not find a sweeter signory
Than this pure forehead’s.’
⁠Not a word he said.
How arrogant men are!—Even philanthropists,
Who try to take a wife up in the way
They put down a subscription-cheque,—if once
She turns and says, ‘I will not tax you so,
Most charitable sir,’—feel ill at ease,
As though she had wronged them somehow. I suppose
We women should remember what we are,
And not throw back an obolus inscribed
With Cæsar's image, lightly. I resumed.

‘It strikes me, some of those sublime Vandykes
Were not too proud, to make good saints in heaven;
And, if so, then they’re not too proud to-day
To bow down (now the ruffs are off their necks)
And own this good, true, noble Marian, . . yours,
And mine, I’ll say!—For poets (bear the word)
Half-poets even, are still whole democrats,—
Oh, not that we’re disloyal to the high,
But loyal to the low, and cognisant
Of the less scrutable majesties. For me,
I comprehend your choice—I justify
Your right in choosing.’
⁠‘No, no, no’ he sighed,