“But, my dear madam,” pursued Mr. Palmer, “the man is neither handsome nor young: he is old enough for her father, though he gives himself the airs of a youngster; and his manners are--I can allow for fashionable manners. But, madam, it is his character I don’t like--selfish--cold--designing--not a generous thought, not a good feeling about him. You are right, madam, quite right. In all his conversation such meanness, and even in what he means for wit, such a contempt of what is fair and honourable! Now that fellow does not believe that such a thing as virtue or patriotism, honour or friendship, exists. The jackanapes!--and as for love! why, madam, I’m convinced he is no more in love with the girl than I am, nor so much, ma’am, nor half so much!--does not feel her merit, does not value her accomplishments, does not Madam! madam! he is thinking of nothing but himself, and her fortune--fortune! fortune! fortune! that’s all. The man’s a miser. Madam, they that know no better fancy that there are none but old misers; but I can tell them there are young misers, and middle-aged misers, and misers of all ages. They say such a man can’t be a miser, because he is a spendthrift; but, madam, you know a man can be both--yes, and that’s what many of your young men of fashion are, and what, I’ll engage, this fellow is. And can Amelia like him? my poor child! and does she think he loves her? my poor, poor child! how can she be so blind? but love is always blind, they say. I’ve a great mind to take her to task, and ask her, between ourselves, what it is she likes in her baronet.” “Oh, my dear sir! she would sink to the centre of the earth if you were to speak. For Heaven’s sake, don’t take her to task, foolish as she is; besides, she would be so angry with me for telling you.” “Angry? the gipsy! Am not I her godfather and her guardian? though I could not act, because I was abroad, yet her guardian I was left by her father, and love her too as well as I should a daughter of her father’s--and she to have secrets, and mysteries! that would be worse than all the rest, for mysteries are what I abhor. Madam, wherever there are secrets and mysteries in a family, take my word for it, there is somethings wrong.” “True, my dear sir; but Amelia has no idea of mysteries or art. I only meant that young girls, you know, will be ashamed on these occasions, and we must make allowances. So do not speak to her, I conjure you.” “Well, madam, you are her mother, and must know best. I have only her interest at heart: but I won’t speak to her, since it will so distress her. But what shall be done about this lover? You are quite right about him, and I have not a word more to say.”