“Deuced fool, sir,” cried the Major; “left her every farthing he had in the world, without settling a penny on those deuced children, or binding her up anyhow; left her at thirty or so, I suppose, with every penny he had in her hands. Never heard of such an ass. Of course that’s what Summerhayes means, but I can tell him it won’t be a bed of roses. They’ll hate him like poison, these brats will—they’ll make parties against him—they’ll serve him so that he’ll be sick of his life. I know the whole business. He’s well enough off now, with his old father’s savings, and the manor-house, and nothing to do; but he’ll be a wretched man, mark my words, if he marries Fontanel with five children in it. It’s the maddest thing he ever did in his life.” “The poor lady doesn’t seem to count for much,” said Mr Temple. “She’s a pretty nobody, I suppose.” Upon which vehement disclaimers rose from all the _convives_. “No, she was a charming woman,” Gossett said. “A dear, kind-hearted, good little soul,” said the Rector. “Very well as women go,” the Major admitted; while the two young men added warmer, but equally vague commendations. “Yet none of you imagine she is being married for herself,” said the solitary individual who did not belong to Summerhayes, with a little laugh at the perturbation he had caused. But nobody saw the fun of it: they went on with the discussion, ignoring Mr Temple. “When a woman is in Mrs Clifford’s position,” said the Doctor, “it is nonsense to talk of her _being_ married. She is active, she is no longer passive in such a business. She’s richer, she’s _gooder_, she’s handsomer, she’s better off every way than Tom Summerhayes. How she ever came to fancy him is the wonder to me.” “Deuced nonsense,” said the Major; “why didn’t he marry off his sisters and set up snug for himself? He’s old enough to know better, that fellow is. There’s young Chesterfield there, he’s at the time of life to make a fool of himself; but Summerhayes must be, let me see——” “Don’t let us go into chronology,” said the Rector. “Poor little Mary, I hope she’ll be happy all the same. I married her to poor Clifford, and I daresay I’ll have this little business to do as well. I wish she had a brother, or an uncle, or some one to take that piece of duty off my hands. I think I will have one of my attacks, and go off to Malvern, and leave it, Spencer, to you.” “I wish she had an uncle or a brother for more than that,” said the Doctor; “it ought to be seen to—the settlement and all that should be looked well into. I hope she’ll have her wits about her. Not that I mean to ascribe any mean motives to Tom Summerhayes; but still when there’s five children to be considered——”