The Sentimentalists. George Meredith

Lady

      Pluriel.

      LYRA: I must have a talk with Astraea, my dear uncle. Her letters breed suspicions. She writes feverishly. The last one hints at service on the West Coast of Africa.

      HOMEWARE: For the draining of a pestiferous land, or an enlightenment of the benighted black, we could not despatch a missionary more effective than the handsomest widow in Great Britain.

      LYRA: Have you not seen signs of disturbance?

      HOMEWARE: A great oration may be a sedative.

      LYRA: I have my suspicions.

      HOMEWARE: Mr. Arden, I could counsel you to throw yourself at Lady

      Pluriel's feet, and institute her as your confessional priest.

      ARDEN: Madam, I am at your feet. I am devoted to the lady.

      LYRA: Devoted. There cannot be an objection. It signifies that a man asks for nothing in return!

      HOMEWARE: Have a thought upon your words with this lady, Mr. Arden!

      ARDEN: Devoted, I said. I am. I would give my life for her.

      LYRA: Expecting it to be taken to-morrow or next day? Accept my encomiums. A male devotee is within an inch of a miracle. Women had been looking for this model for ages, uncle.

      HOMEWARE: You are the model, Mr Arden!

      LYRA: Can you have intended to say that it is in view of marriage you are devoted to the widow of Professor Towers?

      ARDEN: My one view.

      LYRA: It is a star you are beseeching to descend.

      ARDEN: It is.

      LYRA: You disappoint me hugely. You are of the ordinary tribe after all; and your devotion craves an enormous exchange, infinitely surpassing the amount you bestow.

      ARDEN: It does. She is rich in gifts; I am poor. But I give all I have.

      LYRA: These lovers, uncle Homeware!

      HOMEWARE: A honey-bag is hung up and we have them about us. They would persuade us that the chief business of the world is a march to the altar.

      ARDEN: With the right partner, if the business of the world is to be better done.

      LYRA: Which right partner has been chosen on her part, by a veiled woman, who marches back from the altar to discover that she has chained herself to the skeleton of an idea, or is in charge of that devouring tyrant, an uxorious husband. Is Mr. Arden in favour with the Dame, uncle?

      HOMEWARE: My sister is an unsuspicious potentate, as you know.

      Pretenders to the hand of an inviolate widow bite like waves at a rock.

      LYRA: Professor Spiral advances rapidly.

      HOMEWARE: Not, it would appear, when he has his audience of ladies and their satellites.

      LYRA: I am sure I hear a spring-tide of enthusiasm coming.

      ARDEN: I will see.

      (He goes up the path.)

      LYRA: Now! my own dear uncle, save me from Pluriel. I have given him the slip in sheer desperation; but the man is at his shrewdest when he is left to guess at my heels. Tell him I am anywhere but here. Tell him I ran away to get a sense of freshness in seeing him again. Let me have one day of liberty, or, upon my word, I shall do deeds; I shall console young Arden: I shall fly to Paris and set my cap at presidents and foreign princes. Anything rather than be eaten up every minute, as I am. May no woman of my acquaintance marry a man of twenty years her senior! She marries a gigantic limpet. At that period of his life a man becomes too voraciously constant.