'According to that, papa, every lady must marry any gentleman that asks her,' said Mrs. Arbuthnot.
'When a lady is under so deep a weight of obligation I don't know how she is to refuse. My idea is that Sir Peregrine should not have asked her.'
'And mine too,' said Felix. 'Unless indeed he did it under an impression that he could fight for her better as her husband than simply as a friend.'
'And I feel sure that that is what he did think,' said Madeline, from the further side of the table. And her voice sounded in Graham's ears as the voice of Eve may have sounded to Adam. No; let him do what he might in the world;—whatever might be the form in which his future career should be fashioned, one thing was clearly impossible to him. He could not marry Mary Snow. Had he never learned to know what were the true charms of feminine grace and loveliness, it might have been possible for him to do so, and to have enjoyed afterwards a fair amount of contentment. But now even contentment would be impossible to him under such a lot as that. Not only would he be miserable, but the woman whom he married would be wretched also. It may be said that he made up his mind definitely, while sitting in that arm-chair, that he would not marry Mary Snow. Poor Mary Snow! Her fault in the matter had not been great.
When Graham was again in his room, and the servant who was obliged to undress him had left him, he sat over his fire, wrapped in his dressing-gown, bethinking himself what he would do⟨.⟩ 'I will tell the judge everything,' he said at last. 'Then, if he will let me into his house after that, I must fight my own battle.' And so he betook himself to bed.
