‘“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”’ quoted Celia, laughing. ‘I am not quite so foolish as to love at first sight; but in three days I seemed to know Mr. Gerard as well as if we had been friends as many years.’ ‘Your brother and he are intimate friends, are they not?’ ‘I cannot make out the history of their friendship. Edward is disgustingly reserved about Mr. Gerard, and I don’t like to seem curious, for fear he should suppose I take too much interest in the young man.’ ‘Mr. Gerard has gone back to London, has he not?’ ‘Yes,’ sighed Celia. ‘He went early on Tuesday morning, by the parliamentary train. Fancy the Sir William Jenner of the future travelling by a horrid slow train, in a carriage like a cattle truck.’ ‘He will be amply rewarded by-and-by, if he is really the Jenner of the future.’ ‘Yes, but it’s a long time to wait,’ said Celia dolefully. ‘No doubt,’ assented Laura, ‘and the time would seem longer to the wife sitting at home by a shabby fireside.’ ‘Sitting,’ echoed Celia; ‘she would never be able to sit. She would have no time for moping over the fire. She would always be dusting or sweeping, or making a pudding, or sewing on buttons.’ ‘I think you had better abandon the idea,’ said Laura. ‘You could never bear a life of deprivation. Your home-nest has been too soft and comfortable. You had much better think of Mr. Sampson, who admires you very sincerely, and who has a nice house, and a good income.’ ‘A nice house!’ exclaimed Celia, with unqualified contempt. ‘The quintessence of middle-class commonness. I would rather endure George Gerard’s shabby lodgings. A nice house! Oh, Laura, how can you, living in these fine old rooms, call that stucco abomination of a modern villa, those dreadful walnut-wood chairs and sofas and chiffonnier, all decorated with horrid wriggling scroll-work, badly glued on; that sticky-looking mahogany sideboard, those all-pervading crochet antimacassars----’ ‘My dearest, the antimacassars are not fixtures. You could do away with them. Indeed, I dare say if Mr. Sampson thought his furniture was the only obstacle to his happiness, he would not mind refurnishing his house altogether.’ ‘His furniture the only obstacle!’ echoed Celia indignantly. ‘What have you ever seen in my conduct or character, Laura, that can justify you in supposing I could marry a stumpy little man with sandy hair?’ ‘In that case we will waive the marriage question altogether. You say you won’t marry Mr. Sampson, and I am sure you ought not to marry Mr. Gerard.’ ‘There is no fear of my doing anything so foolish,’ Celia replied, with a resigned air. ‘He has gone back to London, and heaven knows if I shall ever see him again. But I am certain if you saw more of him, you would like him very much.’