He is too wrinkled, too studious, too quiet, too patient for his years.

His children need a mother, his old family servants need discipline, his baronial halls need sweeping and cleaning (I haven't seen them, but I know they do!), and his aged aunt needs advice and guidance.

On the other hand, there are those (I speak guardedly) who have walked in shady, sequestered paths all their lives, looking at hundreds of happy lovers on the sunny highroad, but never joining them; those who adore erudition, who love children, who have a genius for unselfish devotion, who are sweet and refined and clever, and who look perfectly lovely when they put on grey satin and leave off eyeglasses.

They say they are over forty, and although this probably is exaggeration, they may be thirty-nine and three-quarters; and if so, the time is limited in which to find for them a worthy mate, since half of the masculine population is looking for itself, and always in the wrong quarter, needing no assistance to discover rose-cheeked idiots of nineteen, whose obvious charms draw thousands to a dull and uneventful fate.
These thoughts were running idly through my mind while the Honourable Michael McGillicuddy was discoursing to me of Mr.Gladstone's misunderstanding of Irish questions,--a misunderstanding, he said, so colossal, so temperamental, and so all-embracing, that it amounted to genius.

I was so anxious to return to Salemina that I wished I had ordered the car at ten thirty instead of eleven; but I made up my mind, as we ladies went to the drawing-room for coffee, that I would seize the first favourable opportunity to explore the secret chambers of Dr.La Touche's being.