“Yes, in body--that he can make a slave of--always ready to nurse him and his foe, or to put down your work and to take up his--to play at his vile backgammon.” “Piquet, please.” “Where is the difference?--to share his desolation, and take half his blue devils on your own shoulders, till he will hyp you so that to get away you will consent to marry into his set--the county set--some beggarly old family that came down from the Conquest, and has been going down ever since; so then he will let you fly--with a string: you must vegetate two miles from him; so then he can have you in to Backquette and write his letters: he will settle four hundred a year on you, and you will be miserable for life.” “Poor Uncle Fountain, what a schemer he turns out!” “Men all turn out schemers when you know them, Miss Impertinence. Well, dear, I have no selfish views for you. I love my few friends too single-heartedly for that; but I _am_ sad when I see you leaving us to go where you are not prized.” “Indeed, aunt, I am prized at Font Abbey. I am overrated there as I am here. They all receive me with open arms.” “So is a hare when it comes into a trap,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, sharply, drawing upon a limited knowledge of grammar and field-sports. “No--Uncle Fountain really loves me.” “As much as I do?” asked the lady, with a treacherous smile. “Very nearly,” was the young courtier's reply. She went on to console her aunt's unselfish solicitude, by assuring her that Font Abbey was not a solitude; that dinners and balls abounded, and her uncle was invited to them all. “You little goose, don't you see? all those invitations are for your sake, not his. If we could look in on him now we should find him literally in single cursedness. Those county folks are not without cunning. They say beauty has come to stay with the beast; we must ask the beast to dinner, so then beauty will come along with him. “What other pleasure awaits you at Font Abbey?” “The pleasure of giving pleasure,” replied Lucy, apologetically. “Ah! that is your weakness, Lucy. It is all very well with those who won't take advantage; but it is the wrong game to play with all the world. You will be made a tool of, and a slave of, and use of. I speak from experience. You know how I sacrifice myself to those I love; luckily, they are not many.” “Not so many as love you, dear.” “Heaven forbid! but you are at the head of them all, and I am going to prove it--by deeds, not words.” Lucy looked up at this additional feature in her aunt's affection. “You must go to the great bear's den for three months, but it shall be the last time!” Lucy said nothing. “You will return never to quit us, or, at all events, not the neighborhood.” “That--would be nice,” said the courtier warmly, but hesitatingly; “but how will you gain uncle's consent?” “By dispensing with it.” “Yes; but the means, aunt?” “A husband!”