“I'm not so sure of that,” broke in Jekyl; “the noble Viscount's late speculations have all proved unfortunate, even to his book on Carlo Alberto. He thinks he has gone wrong in not hedging on Radetzky.” “What does he know of the changes of politics?” said D'Esmonde, contemptuously. “Let him stick to his stablemen and the crafty youths of Newmarket, but leave state affairs for other and very different capacities. Does she care for him, Jekyl? Does she love him?” “She does, and she does not,” said Jekyl, with a languishing air, which he sometimes assumed when asked for an opinion. “She likes his fashionable exterior, his easy kind of drawing-room assurance, and, perhaps not least of all, the tone of impertinent superiority he displays towards all other men; but she is afraid of him,----afraid of his temper and his tyrannical humor, and terribly afraid of his extravagance.” “How amusing it is!” said D'Esmonde, with a yawn. “A minister quits the cabinet in disgust, and retires into private life forever, when his first step is to plot his return to power. So your widow is invariably found weighing the thoughts of her mourning with speculations on a second husband. Why need she marry again; tell me that?” “Because she is a widow, perhaps. I know no other reason,” lisped out Jekyl. “I cannot conceive a greater folly than that of these women, with ample fortune, sacrificing their independence by marriage. The whole world is their own, if they but knew it. They command every source of enjoyment while young, and have all the stereotyped solaces of old age when it comes upon them; and with poodles, parrots, and parasites, mornings of scandal and evenings of whist, eke out a very pretty existence.” “Dash the whole with a little religion, Abbé,” cried Jekyl, laughing, “and the picture will be tolerably correct.” “She shall not marry Lord Norwood; that, at least, I can answer for,” said D'Esmonde, not heeding the other. “It will be difficult to prevent it, Abbé,” said the other, dryly. “Easier than you think for. Come, Master Jekyl, assume a serious mood for once, and pay attention to what I am about to say. This line of life you lead cannot go on forever. Even were your own great gifts to resist time and its influences, a new generation will spring up with other wants and requirements, and another race will come who knew not Joseph. With all your versatility it will be late to study new models, and acquire a new tongue. Have you speculated, then, I ask you, on this contingency?” “I 've some thoughts of a 'monkery,'” lisped out Jekyl; “if the good folk could only be persuaded to adopt a little cleanliness.” “Would not marriage suit you better; a rich widow, titled, well-connected, and good-looking, of fashionable habits, and tastes that resemble your own?” “There are difficulties in the case,” said Jekyl, calmly. “State them,” rejoined the Abbé. “To begin. There is Lady Hester herself,--for, of course, you mean _her._”