"Perhaps so; though I confess it is easier to dispose of a straight- forward proposition from a mother, a father, or a commissioned friend, than to get rid of a young lady, who, _propriâ personâ_, angles on her own account. While abroad, I had a dozen proposals--" "Proposals!" exclaimed Mrs. Bloomfield, holding up both hands, and shaking her head incredulously. "Proposals! Why not, ma'am?--am I more than fifty? am I not reasonably youthful for that period of life, and have I not six or eight thousand a year--" "Eighteen, or you are much scandalized." "Well, eighteen, if you will," coolly returned the other, in whose eyes money was no merit, for he was born to a fortune, and always treated it as a means, and not as the end of life; "every dollar is a magnet, after one has turned forty. Do you suppose that a single man, of tolerable person, well-born, and with a hundred thousand francs of _rentes_, could entirely escape proposals from the ladies in Europe?" "This is so revolting to all our American notions, that, though I have often heard of such things, I have always found it difficult to believe them!" "And is it more revolting for the friends of young ladies to look out for them, on such occasions, than that the young ladies should take the affair into their own hands, as is practised quite as openly, here?" "It is well you are a confirmed bachelor, or declarations like these would mar your fortunes. I will admit that the school is not as retiring and diffident as formerly; for we are all ready enough to say that no times are egual to our own times; but I shall strenuously protest against your interpretation of the nature and artlessness of an American girl." "Artlessness!" repeated John Effingham, with a slight lifting of the eye-brows; "we live in an age when new dictionaries and vocabularies are necessary to understand each other's meaning. It is artlessness, with a vengeance, to beset an old fellow of fifty, as one would besiege a town. Hist!--Ned is retiring with his daughter, my dear Mrs. Bloomfield, and it will not be long before I shall be summoned to a family council. Well, we will keep the secret until it is publicly proclaimed." John Effingham was right, for his two cousins left the room together, and retired to the library, but in a way to attract no particular attention, except in those who were enlightened on the subject of what had already passed that evening. When they were alone, Mr. Effingham turned the key, and then he gave a free vent to his paternal feelings.