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of human nature. But she felt moved to put in a protest on
Lord Warburton’s behalf. ‘I don’t believe Lord Warburton’s
a humbug; I don’t care what the others are. I should like to
see Lord Warburton put to the test.’
‘Heaven deliver me from my friends!’ Mr. Touchett an-
swered. ‘Lord Warburton’s a very amiable young man—a
very fine young man. He has a hundred thousand a year.
He owns fifty thousand acres of the soil of this little island
and ever so many other things besides. He has half a dozen
houses to live in. He has a seat in Parliament as I have one
at my own dinner-table. He has elegant tastes—cares for lit-
erature, for art, for science, for charming young ladies. The
most elegant is his taste for the new views. It affords him a
great deal of pleasure—more perhaps than anything else,
except the young ladies. His old house over there—what
does he call it, Lockleigh?—is very attractive; but I don’t
think it’s as pleasant as this. That doesn’t matter, however—
he has so many others. His views don’t hurt any one as far
as I can see; they certainly don’t hurt himself. And if there
were to be a revolution he would come off very easily. They
wouldn’t touch him, they’d leave him as he is: he’s too much
liked.’
‘Ah, he couldn’t be a martyr even if he wished!’ Isabel
sighed. ‘That’s a very poor position.’
‘He’ll never be a martyr unless you make him one,’ said
the old man.
Isabel shook her head; there might have been something
laughable in the fact that she did it with a touch of melan-
choly. ‘I shall never make any one a martyr.’

102 The Portrait of a Lady