“You wouldn’t have said that of me, when George the Fourth was on the throne,” said my uncle to his wife, with a wink at me. “You’re always talking about George the Fourth,” replied my aunt, fanning herself with a napkin. “One would think that he lived in Henry the Eighth’s time. He only died a few years ago.” “When did he die, Conny?” asked her papa. “You are well read in history.” “Oh, please, don’t let us argue any more,” said Conny. “It is too hot.” “Marriage,” said I, feeling that I would give worlds to take and squeeze Conny’s hand under the table-cloth, “is one of those things you can’t reason about. The moth flies to the candle, and takes no thought of whither he goeth or what will become of him.” “Whether,” continued my uncle, “the flame that attracts him is made by a farthing dip or by virgin wax.” “Aye, or whether it illuminates the splendours of a royal drawing-room, or the sordid squalor of a pauper’s hovel,” said I. “I don’t understand what you are talking about,” exclaimed my aunt. “We do, though, Charlie--don’t we,” said my uncle with great glee. “But Conny looks bored, and my wife puzzled; so we’ll talk of feathers and rouge.” I saw nothing of my cousin all the afternoon. Yes--once I caught a glimpse of her at her bed-room window as my uncle and I sat chatting on the lawn. I had it several times in my mind to tell my uncle what my feelings were for Conny, and to receive his opinion on the subject; but I thought I should be acting more wisely if, before speaking to her papa, I first of all ascertained what Conny’s views were. I rather wondered that my uncle never made any allusion to my admiration, not to say my love, which I thought must surely be as plain as the daylight. He could be confidential enough on other matters. I supposed he must have a pretty good notion that I couldn’t be in the society of so charming a creature every day without conceiving a very sentimental affection for her. My aunt suspected the truth, and relished it; why did my uncle choose to be so regardless? He appeared so thoroughly fond of me that I could not question the pleasure he would feel on hearing that I wanted to marry his child. The only possible objection he could offer to an alliance which could not fail to gratify his pride of family, was--my “circumstances”--which, to speak the truth, were not what the Barings or the Rothschilds would call splendid. But then, Conny would have money enough for both of us to cut a very considerable figure with; and what would it matter on which side the fortune lay, so long as it lay between us?