It was not then as old a song as it is now.

Wylder looked sharply at her, but she did not smile, and seemed to speak
in good faith; and being somewhat thick in some matters, though a cunning
fellow, he said--

'Yes; that is the sort of thing, you know--of course, with a
difference--a girl is supposed to speak there; but men suffer that way,
too--though, of course, very likely it's more their own fault.'

'It is very sad,' said Miss Lake, who was busy with a _pate_.

'She has no life in her; she's a mere figurehead; she's awfully slow; I
don't like black hair; I'm taken by conversation--and all that. There are
some men that can only really love once in their lives, and never forget
their first love, I assure you.'

Wylder murmured all this, and looked as plaintive as he could without
exciting the attention of the people over-the-way.

Mark Wylder had, as you perceive, rather vague notions of decency, and
not much experience of ladies; and thought he was making just the
interesting impression he meditated. He was a good deal surprised, then,
when Miss Lake said, and with quite a cheerful countenance, and very
quickly, but so that her words stung his ear like the prick of a bodkin.

'Your way of speaking of my cousin, Sir, is in the highest degree
discreditable to you and offensive to me, and should you venture to
repeat it, I will certainly mention it to Lady Chelford.'