"And could he be better provided, as you call it, in that respect, than ourselves?" asked Miss Henly, a little reproachfully. "Oh no, surely not; now if he were a woman, how soon would he be married!--why, child, they say he is worth at least three hundred thousand dollars!-- he'd be a bride in a month!" "And miserable, perhaps, in a year," said Charlotte; "it is fortunate for him that he is a man, by your tale, or his wealth might purchase misery for him." "Oh! no one can be miserable that is well married," cried Maria; "Heigho! the idea of old-maidism is too shocking to think about!" "Why does not Mr. Delafield get married, then, if marriage be so very desirable?" said Miss Henly, smiling at the customary rattle of her companion: "he can easily get a wife, you say?" {rattle = trivial chatter} "It is the difficulty of choosing--there are so many attentive to him--" "Maria!" "Mercy! I beg pardon of female delicacy!--but since the young man has returned from his travels, he has been so much--much courted--nay, by the old people, I mean--and the girls beckon him about so- -and it's Mr. Delafield, have you read Salmagundi?-- and, Mr. Delafield, have you seen Cooke?--and, Mr. Delafield, do you think we shall have war?--and have you seen Bonaparte? And, in short, Mr. Delafield, with his handsome person, and three hundred thousand dollars, has been so much of all- in-all to the ladies, that the man has never time to choose a wife!" {Salmagundi = a series of comic essays (1819- 1820) by New York City writer James Kirke Paulding (1778-1860), emulating an earlier series by Washington Irving and others; Cooke = probably Thomas Potter Cooke (1786-1864), a noted English actor; Bonaparte = Napoleon Bonaparte died on St. Helena in 1821} "I really wonder that you never took the office upon yourself," said Charlotte, busied in throwing aside her coat and gloves; "you appear to have so much interest in the gentleman." "Oh! I did, a month since--the moment that he landed." "Indeed! and who was it?" "Myself." "And have you told him of your choice?" asked the other, laughing. "Not with my tongue: but with my eyes, a thousand times--and with all that unspeakable language that female invention can supply:--I go where he goes-- if I see him in the street behind me, I move slowly and with dignity; still he passes me--if before me, I am in a hurry--but{"}-- "You pass him?" interrupted Charlotte, amused with her companion's humour. "Exactly--we never keep an equal pace; this is the first time that he has walked with me since he returned from abroad--and for this honour I am clearly indebted to yourself." "To me, Maria?" said Charlotte, in surprise. "To none other--he talked to me, but he looked at you. Ah! he knows by instinct that you are an only child--and I do believe that the wretch knows that I have twelve brothers and sisters--but you had better take him, Charlotte; he is worth twenty George Mortons--at least, in money."