There had been a saint at whose shrine she
thought she could have worshipped with a constant and happy devotion,
but that saint had repulsed her from his altar.
Mr. Maule, Senior, not understanding much of all this, but still
understanding something, thought that he might perhaps be the
saint. He knew well that audacity in asking is a great merit in a
middle-aged wooer. He was a good deal older than the lady, who, in
spite of all her experiences, was hardly yet thirty. But then he
was,--he felt sure,--very young for his age, whereas she was old.
She was a widow; he was a widower. She had a house in town and an
income. He had a place in the country and an estate. She knew all the
dukes and duchesses, and he was a man of family. She could make him
comfortably opulent. He could make her Mrs. Maule of Maule Abbey.
She, no doubt, was good-looking. Mr. Maule, Senior, as he tied on
his cravat, thought that even in that respect there was no great
disparity between them. Considering his own age, Mr. Maule, Senior,
thought there was not perhaps a better-looking man than himself about
Pall Mall.
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