"Madam," replied he, "if I were to choose, I would find out a person possessed of every accomplishment that can make an angel happy; one with prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity: such, madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper husband." "Ay, sir," said she, "but do you know of any such person?" "No, madam," returned he, "it is impossible to know any person that deserves to be her husband: she's too great a treasure for one man's possession: she's a goddess. Upon my soul, I speak what I think: she is an angel." "Ah, Mr. Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl: but we have been thinking of marrying her to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and who wants a manager; you know whom I mean—Farmer Williams; a warm man, Mr. Thornhill, able to give her good bread; and who has several times made her proposals" (which was actually the case). "But, sir," concluded she, "I should be glad to have your approbation of our choice." "How, madam!" replied he, "my approbation! My approbation of such a choice! Never. What! sacrifice so much beauty, and sense, and goodness, to a creature insensible of the blessing! Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of injustice! And I have my reasons." "Indeed, sir," cried Deborah, "if you have your reasons, that's another affair; but I should be glad to know those reasons." "Excuse me, madam," returned he, "they lie too deep for discovery," (laying his hand upon his bosom,) "they remain buried, riveted here." After he was gone, upon a general consultation, we could not tell what to make of these fine sentiments. Olivia considered them as instances of the most exalted passion; but I was not quite so sanguine: it seemed to me pretty plain that they had more of love than matrimony in them; yet, whatever they might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the scheme of Farmer Williams, who, from my daughter's first appearance in the country, had paid her his addresses. _CHAPTER XVII._ _Scarcely any virtue found to resist the power of long and pleasing temptation._