"Really," Mrs. Doria said to her intimates, "that boy's education acts
like a disease on him. He cannot regard anything sensibly. He is for
ever in some mad excess of his fancy, and what he will come to at last
heaven only knows! I sincerely pray that Austin will be able to bear
it."

Threats of prayer, however, that harp upon their sincerity, are not very
well worth having. Mrs. Doria had embarked in a practical controversy,
as it were, with her brother. Doubtless she did trust he would be able
to bear his sorrows to come, but one who has uttered prophecy can barely
help hoping to see it fulfilled: she had prophecied much grief to the
baronet.

Poor John Todhunter, who would rather have married the mother, and had
none of your heroic notions about the sacred necessity for love in
marriage, moved as one guiltless of offence, and deserving his happiness.
Mrs. Doria shielded him from the hero. To see him smile at Clare's
obedient figure, and try not to look paternal, was touching.

Meantime Clare's marriage served one purpose. It completely occupied
Richard's mind, and prevented him from chafing at the vexation of not
finding his father ready to meet him when he came to town. A letter had
awaited Adrian at the hotel, which said, "Detain him till you hear
further from me. Take him about with you into every form of society."
No more than that. Adrian had to extemporize, that the baronet had gone
down to Wales on pressing business, and would be back in a week or so.
For ulterior inventions and devices wherewith to keep the young gentleman
in town, he applied to Mrs. Doria. "Leave him to me," said Mrs. Doria,
"I'll manage him." And she did.