Shirley

Have you rejected Sir Philip Nunnely?‹
    I put this question suddenly and promptly.
    ›Did you think I should take him?‹
    ›I thought you might.‹
    ›On what grounds, may I ask?‹
    ›Conformity of rank; age; pleasing contrast of temper, for
he
is mild and amiable; harmony of intellectual tastes.‹
    ›A beautiful sentence! Let us take it to pieces. »Conformity of rank.« – He is quite above me: compare my grange with his palace, if you please: I am disdained by his kith and kin. »Suitability of age.« – We were born in the same year; consequently, he is still a boy, while I am a woman: ten years his senior to all intents and purposes. »Contrast of temper.« – Mild and amiable, is he: I –– what? Tell me.‹
    ›Sister of the spotted, bright, quick, fiery leopard.‹
    ›And you would mate me with a kid – the Millennium being yet millions of centuries from mankind; being yet, indeed, an archangel high in the seventh heaven, uncommissioned to descend –? Unjust barbarian! »Harmony of intellectual tastes.« – He is fond of poetry, and I hate it –‹
    ›Do you? That is news.‹
    ›I absolutely shudder at the sight of metre or at the sound of rhyme, whenever I am at the Priory or Sir Philip at Fieldhead. Harmony, indeed! When did I whip up syllabub sonnets, or string stanzas fragile as fragments of glass? and when did I betray a belief that those penny-beads were genuine brilliants?‹
    ›You might have the satisfaction of leading him to a higher standard – of improving his tastes.‹
    ›Leading and improving! teaching and tutoring! bearing and forbearing! Pah! My husband is not to be my baby. I am not to set him his daily lesson and see that he learns it, and give him a sugar-plum if he is good, and a patient, pensive, pathetic lecture if he is bad. But it is like a tutor to talk of the »satisfaction of teaching« – I suppose
you
think it the finest employment in the world. I don't – I reject it. Improving a husband! No. I shall insist upon my husband improving me, or else we part.‹
    ›God knows it is needed!‹
    ›What do you mean by that, Mr. Moore?‹
    ›What I say. Improvement is imperatively needed.‹
    ›If you were a woman you would school Monsieur, votre mari, charmingly: it would just suit you; schooling is your vocation.‹
    ›May I ask whether, in your present just and gentle mood, you mean to taunt me with being a tutor?‹
    ›Yes – bitterly; and with anything else you please: any defect of which you are painfully conscious‹
    ›With being poor, for instance?‹
    ›Of course; that will sting you; you are sore about your poverty: you brood over that.‹
    ›With having nothing but a very plain person to offer the woman who may master my heart?‹
    ›Exactly. You have a habit of calling yourself plain. You are sensitive about the cut of your features, because they are not quite on an Apollo-pattern. You abuse them more than is needful, in the faint hope that others may say a word in their behalf – which won't happen. Your face is nothing to boast of, certainly: not a pretty line, nor a pretty tint, to be found therein.‹
    ›Compare it with your own.‹
    ›It looks like a god of Egypt: a great sand-buried stone head; or rather I will compare it to nothing so lofty: it looks like Tartar: you are my mastiff's cousin: I think you as much like him as a man can be like a dog.‹
    ›Tartar is your dear companion. In summer, when you rise early, and run out into the fields to wet your feet with the dew, and freshen your cheek and uncurl your hair with the breeze, you always call him to follow you: you call him sometimes with a whistle that you learned from me. In the solitude of your wood, when you think nobody but Tartar is listening, you whistle the very tunes you imitated from my lips, or sing the very songs you have caught up by ear from my voice: I do not ask whence flows the feeling which you pour into these songs, for I know it flows out of your heart, Miss Keeldar. In the winter evenings, Tartar lies at your feet: you suffer him to rest his head on your perfumed lap; you let him couch on the borders of your satin raiment: his rough hide is familiar with the contact of your hand: I once saw you kiss him on that snow-white beauty-spot which stars his broad forehead. It is dangerous to say I am like Tartar: it suggests to me a claim to be treated like Tartar.‹
    ›Perhaps, sir, you can extort as much from your penniless and friendless young