“Why, Providence always bestows something to compensate for great deficiencies, and as Mr. Beauchamp cannot boast either mental or physical gifts, I take it for granted that he must have money.” “Really, Mr. Forrester, I did not think you were so ill-natured. I am sure Mr. Beauchamp has the prettiest hands and feet in the world, and his ardent admiration of the ladies proves him to possess a good heart.” “To your last argument I can offer no opposition, Madam,” was the gallant reply; “but as to his hands and feet, I can only say that it is not the first time that ladies have been driven to extremities in their search for his good qualities.” “Well, I suppose,” responded Mrs. Dale, laughing heartily, “that I must allow your wit to atone for your severity, but how long is it since you turned satirist?” “Ever since I made the discovery which all the experience of others cannot teach us—that ‘all is not gold which glitters.’ I have almost come to the conclusion that nature, like an over-careful house-wife, hides her true gold and silver in least suspected places.” “In that case Dame Nature might be in the predicament of a queer old lady I once knew who hid her rich plate under the rafters in the garret, and when she wanted it upon occasion of a dinner-party, was obliged to borrow of a neighbor because she had forgotten where she had deposited her treasure.” “I believe if we want to find a really virtuous and true-hearted woman we must look elsewhere than among the beautiful,” said Forrester bitterly. “Fie! fie! if I had the slightest claim to beauty I should banish you from my presence for that ungallant speech.” “You ought rather to consider it a compliment, for there is not another woman here to whom I would have uttered it, or who would have understood me, perhaps, if I had.” “Ah! now you flatter my intellect at the expense of my person, and no woman ever relished such a compliment. But to return to your assertion; how can you venture to despise the allurements of beauty after feasting daily on such a banquet of loveliness as Miss Oriel offers to our eyes. I look at her, woman as I am, with delight, for I never saw so fresh, so pure, so marble-like a complexion.” “Your comparison is more correct than you imagine, Madam; her beauty is indeed like that of the marble statue, carved by a right cunning and skilful hand, but wanting the Promethean touch of soul.” “While Ellen Grey is the delicate alabaster vase, beautifully and finely wrought, and with all its exquisite loveliness brought out in rich relief by the lamp which lights it from within; is it not thus you would have continued the comparison?” said Mrs. Dale mischievously. “Your illustration is a beautiful one, and perfectly true,” was the reply; “Ellen Grey is full of gentle and womanly feeling.” “Perhaps you are prejudiced against Miss Oriel, Mr. Forrester; can it be possible that there is no soul shining in those soft dark eyes?”