"Why not?"

"Choose Horace rather than Percival?"

"I should," said the old lady with smiling audacity. "And I would rather
she did. Horace's position is better."

Mr. Thorne uttered something akin to a grunt, which might by courtesy be
taken for a groan: "Oh, how mercenary you women are! Well, if you marry a
man for his money, Horace has the best of it--if he behaves himself. Yes, I
admit that--_if he behaves himself_"'

"And Horace is handsomer," said Mrs. Middleton with a smile.

"Pink-and-white prettiness!" scoffed Mr. Thorne.

"Nonsense!" The color mounted to the old lady's forehead, and she spoke
sharply: "We didn't hear anything about that when he was a lad, and we were
afraid of something amiss with his lungs: it would have been high treason
to say a syllable against him then. And now, though I suppose he will
always be a little delicate (you'd be sorry if you lost him, Godfrey), it's
a shame to talk as if the boys were not to be compared. They are just of a
height, not half an inch difference, and the one as brave and manly as the
other. Horace is fair, and Percival is dark; and you know, as well as I do,
that Horace is the handsomer."

Mr. Thorne shifted his ground: "If I were Sissy I would choose my husband
for qualities that are rather more than skin-deep."