“As to Mary, my dear fellow, the matter is simple enough. Our consent is a mere form. If she liked Scanlan, she 'd marry him against all the Martins that ever were born; and if she did n't, she 'd not swerve an inch if the whole family were to go to the stake for it. She 's not one for half measures, I promise you; and then, remember, that though she is one 'of us,' and well born, she has never mingled with the society of her equals; she has always lived that kind of life you saw yourself,--taking a cast with the hounds one day, nursing some old hag with the rheumatism the next. I 've seen her hearing a class in the village school, and half an hour after, breaking in a young horse to harness. And what between her habits and her tastes, she is really not fit for what you and I would call the world.” As Massingbred made no reply, Martin ascribed his silence to a part conviction, and went on: “Mind, I 'm not going to say that she is not a deuced deal too good for Maurice Scanlan, who is as vulgar a hound as walks on two legs; but, as I said before, Massy, we haven't much choice.” “Will Lady Dorothea be likely to view the matter in this light?” asked Jack, calmly. “That is a mere matter of chance. She 's equally likely to embrace the proposal with ardor, or tell a footman to kick Scanlan out of the house for his impertinence; and I own the latter is the more probable of the two,--not, mark you, from any exaggerated regard for Mary, but out of consideration to the insult offered to herself.” “Will she not weigh well all the perils that menace the estate?” “She'll take a short method with them,--she'll not believe them.” “Egad! I must say the whole negotiation is in a very promising state!” exclaimed Jack, as he arose and walked the room. “There is only one amongst us has much head for a case of difficulty.” “You mean Kate Henderson?” broke in Martin. “Yes.” “Well, we 've lost _her_ just when we most needed her.” “Lost her! How--what do you mean?” “Why, that she is gone--gone home. She started this morning before daybreak. She had a tiff with my mother last night. I will say the girl was shamefully treated,--shamefully! My Lady completely forgot herself. She was in one of those blessed paroxysms in which, had she been born a Pasha, heads would have been rolling about like shot in a dockyard, and she consequently said all manner of atrocities; and instead of giving her time to make the _amende_, Kate beat a retreat at once, and by this time she is some twenty miles on her journey.”