Somerset,
somewhat staring, told what he thought fit of the affair.
'Is that all?' cried the woman. 'As God sees you, is that all?'
'My good woman,' said the young man, 'I have no idea what you can
be driving at. Suppose the lady were my friend's wife, suppose she
were my fairy godmother, suppose she were the Queen of Portugal;
and how should that affect yourself or Mr. Jones?'
'Blessed Mary!' cried the nurse, 'it's he that will be glad to hear
it!'
And immediately she fled upstairs.
Somerset, on his part, returned to the dining-room, and with a very
thoughtful brow and ruminating many theories, disposed of the
remainder of the bottle. It was port; and port is a wine, sole
among its equals and superiors, that can in some degree support the
competition of tobacco. Sipping, smoking, and theorising, Somerset
moved on from suspicion to suspicion, from resolve to resolve,
still growing braver and rosier as the bottle ebbed. He was a
sceptic, none prouder of the name; he had no horror at command,
whether for crimes or vices, but beheld and embraced the world,
with an immoral approbation, the frequent consequence of youth and
health.
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