"But, sir," replied his lordship with dignity, "we are here to speak of
your daughter."

Our readers may perceive that the wily baronet was beating about the
bush, and attempting to impose upon his lordship by vague disquisitions.
He was perfectly aware of Lord Cullamore's indomitable love of truth,
and he consequently feared to treat him with a direct imposition, taking
it for granted that, if he had, an interview of ten minutes between
Lucy and his lordship might lead to an exposure of his duplicity and
falsehood. He felt himself in a painful and distressing dilemma. Aware
that, if the excellent peer had the slightest knowledge of Lucy's
loathing horror of his son, he would never lend his sanction to the
marriage, the baronet knew not whether to turn to the right or to the
left, or, in other words, whether to rely on truth or falsehood. At
length, he began to calculate upon the possibility of his daughter's
ultimate acquiescence, upon the force of his own unbending character,
her isolated position, without any one to encourage or abet her in what
he looked upon as her disobedience, consequently his complete control
over her; having summoned up all those points together, he resolved to
beat about a little longer, but, at all events, to keep the peer in the
dark, and, if pressed, to hazard the falsehood. He replied, however, to
his lordship's last observation:

"I assure you, my lord, I thought not of my daughter while I drew the
picture."

"Well, then," replied his lordship, smiling, "all I have to say is, that
you are very eloquent in generalities--generalities, too, my friend,
that do not bear upon the question. In one word, is Miss Gourlay
inclined to this marriage? and I beseech you, my dear baronet, no more