ied, "Why don't you marry yourself?"

This it was justly suggested was no argument, but a merely personal
allusion foreign to the question, which was, that marriage was laudable,
etc.

Mr. Clive laughed. "Rosey is as good a little creature as can be," he
said. "She is never out of temper, though I fancy Mrs. Mackenzie tries
her. I don't think she is very wise: but she is uncommonly pretty, and
her beauty grows on you. As for Ethel, anything so high and mighty I
have never seen since I saw the French giantess. Going to Court, and
about to parties every night where a parcel of young fools flatter her,
has perfectly spoiled her. By Jove, how handsome she is! How she turns
with her long neck, and looks at you from under those black eyebrows!
If I painted her hair, I think I should paint it almost blue, and then
glaze over with lake. It is blue. And how finely her head is joined on
to her shoulders!"--And he waves in the air an imaginary line with his
cigar. "She would do for Judith, wouldn't she? Or how grand she would
look as Herodias's daughter sweeping down a stair--in a great dress
of cloth-of-gold like Paul Veronese--holding a charger before her with
white arms, you know--with the muscles accented like that glorious Diana
at Paris--a savage smile on her face and a ghastly solemn gory head on
the dish. I see the picture, sir, I see the picture!" and he fell to
curling his mustachios just like his brave old father.

I could not help laughing at the resemblance, and mentioning it to my
friend. He broke, as was his wont, into a fond eulogium of his sire,
wished he could be like him--worked himself up into another state of
excitement, in which he averred "that if his father wanted him to marry,
he would marry that instant. And why not Rosey? She is a dear little
thing. Or why not that splendid Miss Sherrick? What ahead!--a regular
Titian! I was looking at the difference of their colour at Uncle
Honeyman's that day of the dejeuner. The shadows in Rosey's face, sir,
are all pearly-tinted. You ought to paint her in milk, sir!" cries the
enthusiast. "Have you ever remarked the grey round her eyes, and the
sort of purple bloom of her cheek? Rubens could have done the colour:
but I don't somehow like to think of a young lady and that sensuous
old Peter Paul in company. I look at her like a little wild-flower in a
field--like a little child at play, sir. Pretty little tender nursling!
If I see her passing in the street, I feel a