estionable honor. I don't know whether he thinks us more discreet and
more sympathetic (if he keeps up the system: he has abandoned it with
me), or only more insensible, more proof against shocks; but it is
certain that, like some other Englishmen I have known, he has appeared,
in delicate cases, to think I would take a comprehensive view. When I
have inquired into the grounds of this discrimination in our favor, he
has contented himself with saying, in the British-cursory manner, "Oh,
I don't know; you are different!" I remember he remarked once that our
impressions were fresher. And I am sure that now it was because of my
nationality, in addition to other merits, that he treated me to the
confession I have just alluded to. At least I don't suppose he would
have gone about saying to people in general, "Her husband will probably
die, you know; then why should n't I marry Lady Vandeleur?"

That was the question which his whole expression and manner asked of me,
and of which, after a moment, I decided to take no notice. Why shouldn't
he? There was an excellent reason why he should n't It would just kill
Joscelind Bernardstone; that was why he should n't? The idea that he
should be ready to do it frightened me, and independent as he might
think my point of view, I had no desire to discuss such abominations. It
struck me as an abomination at this very first moment, and I have never
wavered in my judgment of it. I am always glad when I can take the
measure of a thing as soon as I see it; it 's a blessing to _feel_ what
we think, without balancing and comparing. It's a great rest, too, and
a great luxury. That, as I say, was the case with the feeling excited in
me by this happy idea of Ambrose Tester's. Cruel and wanton I thought it
then, cruel and wanton I thought it later, when it was pressed upon me.
I knew there were many other people that did n't agree with me, and I
can only hope for them that their conviction was as quick and positive
as mine; it all depends upon the way a thing strikes one. But I will add
to this another remark. I thought I was right then, and I still think I
was right; but it strikes me as a pity that I should have wished so
much to be right Why could n't I be content to be wrong; to renounce my
influence (since I appeared to possess the mystic article), and let my
young friend do as he liked? As you observed the situation at Doubleton,
should n't you say it was of a nature to make one wonder whether,