“Well, it is just this: most of the guardians live in Farafield, and they will be immediately put on their guard if they see you much with her. There are the Rushtons, the lawyer people, and _that_ Mrs. Stone, who keeps a school. They will both be in arms against you instantly. That father of Lucy’s was an old-- I don’t want to be unkind to anybody that is dead and gone, but-- “Most likely he thought it would be better for her not to marry,” said Sir Thomas, tranquilly. “What folly! well, it would be just like him. I don’t think the will would stand if it were ever brought in to a court of law. There were the maddest provisos! However, unless it can be broken we must hold by it; and, Tom, you must let me say it, you ought to go more cautiously to work.” “Is it worth the trouble?” he said, indifferently. “My dear aunt, before a man takes the pains to work cautiously he must have set his heart on the prize with some fervor.” “And haven’t you done so, Tom? Why, I thought you were going too far--and too fast. I did not see any doubt, or want of warmth, I assure you. Fervor! well, perhaps fervor is a strong word; that means difficulty to get over, and resistance, and a struggle perhaps. Poor little Lucy! I don’t think there will be much resistance on her part.” “I am not at all so sure of that,” he said. “Why, Tom! Poor child! we can’t blame her. She is only seventeen; and you have a way-- Ah, my boy, it is not want of experience that will balk you. You have a way of speaking, and a way of looking. And Lucy is as simple as a little dove, there is no concealment about her. She thinks there is nobody like you.” “Well, perhaps you are right. She thinks there is nobody like me,” said Sir Tom, with something of that softening of vanity which makes a man’s countenance imbecile when he thinks he is admired: “but,” he added, with a little laugh, “Lucy is no more in love with me than-- I am with you. Like her, I think there is nobody like you--” “Oh, Tom-- Tom, you are a deceiver! My dear, that is nonsense. There is no tie between her and you. The very first night I saw it. Fancy her sitting up to chatter to you--and chattering, she who is so quiet! Why, she is a great deal more open, more at her ease with you than with me.” “All so many things against me,” he said; “she is not in love with me, as I tell you, any more than I am with you.” Lady Randolph was struck with great surprise, and so many things poured into her mind to be said that she was silent, and did not say anything, looking at him with confused impatience, and able to bring out nothing save a “but--but,” of bewilderment. At last she enunciated with difficulty and hesitation, “If this is true, which I can’t believe, do you mind, Tom?”