‘Not I, farther than that it is not in _you_ to go with the multitude, either for good or evil. Child, I am certain it is for good, and to our credit, when the rest of us heartily admire and like a fine, manly, friendly fellow like young Stanhope, and I should have thought—though I am not super-subtle in my intuitions—that you would have valued him for standing by the poor creature his brother; whom, with what I must call a morbid taste, you set yourself to prefer to the fairy prince in his own person.’ ‘What!’ exclaimed Catherine, ‘value a man for caring for the dog which is fonder of him than of anything else in the world?’ ‘Well, there is a proverbial estimate of “a dog’s life,” while there are many good sorts of men that kick their dogs occasionally, when they need chastisement,’ speculated Louisa, maliciously treading on one of Catherine’s hobbies. ‘Yes; and the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals exists for the punishment of men’s brutality,’ said Catherine, with her pale cheeks flushing. ‘My love, the Society has to do with ruffians—let us trust they are comparatively rare. You are speaking like a girl who has been brought up by maiden hands, who expects a man to behave like another girl such as herself, not to say like an angel. She does not take into account his different nature and rearing, together with his greater temptations; she shrieks hysterically, and calls his least faults by preposterously exaggerated names. Men who have nothing to do with her either laugh at her, or fall into ecstasies over her baby innocence. But woe betide her and her husband—should she consent to take such a necessary appendage—if she will not open her eyes, and submit to know a little more of the world. You must accept an older woman’s word for it, Catherine, that a man may kick his dog when the animal is troublesome; he may even swear a little at his wife, under great provocation, and yet neither be absolutely barbarous nor profane.’ ‘There may be something in what you say with regard to the wife’—began Catherine, in perfect sincerity, but was stopped by the laughter of Mrs. Hilliard. ‘For shame, Catherine, to prefer a dog to a man—or rather to a woman. Never mind, there is another respectable old saw to draw inferences from, in this case: “Love me, love my dog.” No doubt you are paying Harry Stanhope the most delicate of compliments in your favour for Horace.’ Catherine disdained to reply to the insinuation.