The artless familiarity of her manner, and her unsuspicious confidence, amounting almost to credulity, had irresistible power over Mr. Hervey’s mind; he felt them as appeals at once to his tenderness and his generosity. He treated her with the utmost delicacy, and his oath was never absent from his mind: but he felt proudly convinced, that if he had not been bound by any such solemn engagement, no temptation could have made him deceive and betray confiding innocence. Conscious that his views were honourable, anticipating the generous pleasure he should have in showing his superiority to all mercenary considerations and worldly prejudices, in the choice of a wife, he indulged, with a species of pride, his increasing attachment to Virginia; but he was not sensible of the rapid progress of the passion, till he was suddenly awakened by a few simple observations of Mrs. Ormond. “This is Virginia’s birthday--she tells me she is seventeen to-day.” “Seventeen!--is she only seventeen?” cried Clarence, with a mixture of surprise and disappointment in his countenance--“Only seventeen! Why she is but a child still.” “Quite a child,” said Mrs. Ormond; “and so much the better.” “So much the worse, I think,” said Clarence. “But are you sure she’s only seventeen?--she must be mistaken--she must be eighteen, at least.” “God forbid!” “God forbid!--Why, Mrs. Ormond?” “Because, you know, we have a year more before us.” “That may be a very satisfactory prospect to you,” said Mr. Hervey, smiling. “And to you, surely,” said Mrs. Ormond; “for, I suppose, you would be glad that your wife should, at least, know the common things that every body knows.” “As to that,” said Clarence, “I should be glad that my wife were ignorant of what _every body knows_. Nothing is so tiresome to a man of any taste or abilities as _what every body knows_. I am rather desirous to have a wife who has an uncommon than a common understanding.” “But you would choose, would not you,” said Mrs. Ormond, hesitating with an air of great deference, “that your wife should know how to write?” “To be sure,” replied Clarence, colouring. “Does not Virginia know how to write?” “How should she?” said Mrs. Ormond: “it is no fault of hers, poor girl--she was never taught. You know it was her grandmother’s notion that she should not learn to write, lest she should write love-letters.” “But _you_ promised that she should be taught to write, and I trusted to you, Mrs. Ormond.” “She has been here only two months, and all that time, I am sure, I have done every thing in my power; but when a person comes to be sixteen or seventeen, it is up-hill work.” “I will teach her myself,” cried Clarence: “I am sure she may be taught any thing.” “By you,” said Mrs. Ormond, smiling; “but not by me.” “You have no doubts of her capacity, surely?”