for such a catechism, and looking around until the outstretched neck and the eager attention of Caroline Harris caught his eye, when he added with an air of great simplicity, "about the height of Miss Harris."
"How old?" asked Mrs. Wilson with a smile.
"Not too young, ma'am, certainly, I am thirty-two—my wife must be five or six and twenty. Am I old enough, do you think, Derwent?" he added in a whisper to the duke.
"Within ten years," was the reply.
Mrs. Wilson continued,—
"She must read and write, I suppose?"
"Why, faith," said the marquis, "I am not fond of a bookish sort of a woman, and least of all a scholar."
"You had better take Miss Howard," whispered his brother." She is old enough—never reads—and is just the height."
"No, no, Will," rejoined the brother. "Rather too old, that. Now, I admire a woman who has confidence in herself. One that understands the proprieties of life, and has, if possible, been at the head of an establishment before she is to take charge of mine."
The delighted Caroline wriggled about in her chair, and, unable to contain herself longer, inquired:—
"Noble blood, of course, you would require, my lord?"
"Why, no! I rather think the best wives are to be found in a medium. I would wish to elevate my wife myself. A baronet's daughter for instance."
Here Lady Jarvis, who had entered during the dialogue, and caught a clue to the topic they were engaged in, drew near, and ventured to ask if he thought a simple knight too low. The marquis, who did not expect such an attack, was a little at a loss for an answer; but recovering himself, answered gravely, under the apprehension of another design on his person, that "he did think that would be forgetting his duty to his descendants."
Lady Jarvis sighed, and fell back in disappointment; while Miss Harris, turning to the nobleman, in a soft voice, desired him to ring for her carriage. As he handed
