“Extremely pretty. And I acknowledge that there have been moments when the influence of her--beauty, I can’t call it--prettiness, joined to the power of my mother’s irresistible address, have almost lapped me in elysium--a fool’s paradise. But, thank Heaven and Miss Walsingham! I unlapped myself; and though the sweet airs took my fancy, they never imprisoned my soul.” “Vastly poetical! quite in the blue-stocking style.” “Blue-stocking! Dear mother, that expression is not elegant enough for you. That commonplace taunt is unworthy of my mother,” said Mr. Beaumont, warmly, for he was thrown off his guard by the reflection implied on Miss Walsingham. “Ignorant silly women may be allowed to sneer at information and talents in their own sex, and, if they have read them, may talk of _‘Les Précieuses Ridicules_,’ and _‘Les Femmes Savantes_,’ and may borrow from Molière all the wit they want, to support the cause of folly. But from women who are themselves distinguished for talents, such apostasy--but I am speaking to my mother--I forbear.” “Great forbearance to your mother you have shown, in truth,” cried Mrs. Beaumont, reddening with genuine anger: “Marry as you please! I have done. Fool that I have been, to devote my life to plans for the happiness and aggrandizement of my children! It is now time I should think of myself. You shall not see me the defeated, deserted, duped, despised mother--the old dowager _permitted_ in the house of which she was once the mistress! No, no, Mr. Beaumont,” cried she, rising indignantly, “this shall never, never be.” Touched and astonished by a burst of passion, such as he scarcely had ever before seen from his mother, Mr. Beaumont stopped her as she rose; and taking her hand in the most affectionate manner, “Forgive me, my dear mother, the hasty words I said just now. I was very much in the wrong. I beg your pardon. Forgive your son.” Mrs. Beaumont struggled to withdraw the hand which her son forcibly detained. “Be always,” continued he, “be always mistress of this house, of me, and mine. The chosen wife of my heart will never torment you, or degrade herself, with paltry struggles for power. Your days shall be happy and honoured: believe me, I speak from my heart.” Mrs. Beaumont looked as if her anger had subsided; yet, as if struggling with unusual feelings, she sat silent. Mr. Beaumont continued, “Your son--who is no sentimentalist, no speech-maker--your son, who has hitherto perhaps been too rough, too harsh--now implores you, by these sincere caresses, by all that is tender and true in nature, to believe in the filial affection of your children. Give us, simply give us your confidence; and our confidence, free and unconstrained, shall be given in return. Then we shall be happy indeed.”