Weeks passed--the London season was beginning--Darrell had decided
nothing--the prestige of his position was undiminished,--in politics,
perhaps higher. He had succeeded in reconciling some great men; he had
strengthened--it might be saved--a jarring cabinet. In all this he had
shown admirable knowledge of mankind, and proved that time and disuse had
not lessened his powers of perception. In his matrimonial designs,
Darrell seemed more bent than ever upon the hazard--irresolute as ever on
the choice of a partner. Still the choice appeared to be circumscribed
to the fair three who had been subjected to Colonel Morley's speculative
criticism--Lady Adela, Miss Vipont, Flora Vyvyan. Much pro and con might
be said in respect to each. Lady Adela was so handsome that it was a
pleasure to look at her; and that is much when one sees the handsome face
every day,--provided the pleasure does not wear off. She had the
reputation of a very good temper; and the expression of her countenance
confirmed it. There, panegyric stopped; but detraction did not commence.
What remained was inoffensive commonplace. She had no salient attribute,
and no ruling passion. Certainly she would never have wasted a thought
on Mr. Darrell, nor have discovered a single merit in him, if he had not
been quoted as a very rich man of high character in search of a wife, and
if her father had not said to her: "Adela, Mr. Darrell has been greatly
struck with your appearance--he told me so. He is not young, but he is
still a very fine looking man, and you are twenty-seven. 'Tis a greater
distinction to be noticed by a person of his years and position, than by
a pack of silly young fellows, who think more of their own pretty faces
than they would ever do of yours."

"If you did not mind a little disparity of years, he would make you a
happy wife; and, in the course of nature, a widow, not too old to enjoy
liberty, and with a jointure that might entitle you to a still better