I hate him, aunt,” said I.
“Hate him, Helen! Is this a Christian spirit? You hate him?!”
“I don't hate him as a man, but as a husband. As a man, I love him so much that I wish him a better wife than I – one as good as himself, or better – if you think that possible.”
“What objection do you find?”
“Firstly, he is at least forty years old and I am eighteen. Secondly, he is narrow-minded and bigoted. Thirdly, his tastes and feelings are wholly dissimilar to mine. Fourthly, his looks, voice, and manner are particularly displeasing to me. And, finally, I have an aversion to his whole person.”
“Then compare him for a moment with Mr. Huntingdon and tell me which is the better man.”
“I have no doubt Mr. Huntingdon is a much better man than you think him. But we are not talking about him now, but about Mr. Boarham.”
“But don't give him a denial. It will offend him greatly: say you have no thoughts of matrimony at present – ”
“But I have thoughts of it.”
“Or that you desire a further acquaintance.”
“But I don't desire a further acquaintance – quite the contrary.”
I left the room and went to Mr. Boarham. He was walking up and down the drawing-room.
“My dear young lady,” said he, “I have your kind guardian's permission – ”
“I know, sir,” said I, “and I am greatly obliged for your preference, but must beg to decline the honour you wish to confer. I think we were not made for each other.”
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