"Decidedly suitable! Most proper!" pronounced Mr. Sympson. "A fine unencumbered estate; real substance; good connections. It must be done!"

He sent for his niece to the oak-parlour; he shut himself up there with her alone; he communicated the offer; he gave his opinion; he claimed her consent.

It was withheld.

"No: I shall not marry Samuel Fawthrop Wynne."

"I ask why? I must have a reason. In all respects he is more than worthy of you."

She stood on the hearth; she was pale as the white marble slab and cornice behind her; her eyes flashed large, dilated, unsmiling.

"And I ask in what sense that young man is worthy of me?"

"He has twice your money,—twice your common sense:—equal connections,—equal respectability?"

"Had he my money counted five score times, I would take no vow to love him."

"Please to state your objections."

"He has run a course of despicable, commonplace profligacy. Accept that as the first reason why I spurn him."

"Miss Keeldar, you shock me!"

"That conduct alone sinks him in a gulf of immeasurable inferiority. His intellect reaches no standard I can esteem:—there is a second stumbling-block. His views are narrow; his feelings are blunt; his tastes are coarse; his manners vulgar."