“Why, my very dear good friend’s wife, forgive me,” said he, “for this interference, and for, as it seems, opposing your opinion about your daughter’s marriage, which no man has a right to do--but if you ask me plump whether I could forgive her for marrying Sir John Hunter, I answer, for I can speak nothing but the truth, I would, if he is a worthy man.” “I thought,” said Mrs. Beaumont, astonished, “you disinherited your own nephew, because he took a baronet’s title against your will.” “Bless you! no, my dear madam--that did displease me, to be sure--but that was the least cause of displeasure I had. I let the world fancy and say what they would, rather than bring faults to light.--But no more about that.” “But did not you take an oath that you would never leave a shilling of your fortune to any _sprig of quality?_” “Never! my dearest madam! never,” cried Mr. Palmer, laughing. “Never was such a gander. See what oaths people put into one’s mouth.” “And what lies the world tells,” said Mrs. Beaumont. “And believes,” said Mr. Palmer, with a sly smile. The surprise that Mrs. Beaumont felt was mixed with a strange and rapid confusion of other sentiments, regret for having wasted such a quantity of contrivance and manoeuvring against an imaginary difficulty. All this arose from her too easy belief of _secret underhand information_. Through the maze of artifice in which she had involved affairs, she now, with some difficulty, perceived that plain truth would have served her purpose better. But regret for the past was not in the least mixed with any thing like remorse or penitence; on the contrary, she instantly began to consider how she could best profit by her own wrong. She thought she saw two of her favourite objects almost within her reach, Mr. Palmer’s fortune, and the future title for her daughter: no obstacle seemed likely to oppose the accomplishment of her wishes, except Amelia’s own inclinations: these she thought she could readily prevail upon her to give up; for she knew that her daughter was both of a timid and of an affectionate temper; that she had never in any instance withstood, or even disputed, her maternal authority; and that dread of her displeasure had often proved sufficient to make Amelia suppress or sacrifice her own feelings. Combining all these reflections with her wonted rapidity, Mrs. Beaumont determined what her play should now be. She saw, or thought she saw, that she ought, either by gentle or strong means, to lure or intimidate Amelia to her purpose; and that, while she carried on this part of the plot with her daughter in private, she should appear to Mr. Palmer to yield to his persuasions by degrees, to make the young people happy their own way, and to be persuaded reluctantly out of her aversion to _sprigs of quality_. To be sure, it would be necessary to give fresh explanations and instructions to Sir John Hunter, through his sister, with the new parts that he and she were to act in this domestic drama.