The things we do!

This ceremony amongst us is so stale and common that to be sure there is
no need to describe its rites, and as women sell themselves for what you
call an establishment every day; to the applause of themselves, their
parents, and the world, why on earth should a man ape at originality and
pretend to pity them? Never mind about the lies at the altar, the
blasphemy against the godlike name of love, the sordid surrender, the
smiling dishonour. What the deuce does a mariage de convenance mean but
all this, and are not such sober Hymeneal torches more satisfactory often
than the most brilliant love matches that ever flamed and burnt out? Of
course. Let us not weep when everybody else is laughing: let us pity the
agonised duchess when her daughter, Lady Atalanta, runs away with the
doctor--of course, that's respectable; let us pity Lady Iphigenia's
father when that venerable chief is obliged to offer up his darling
child; but it is over her part of the business that a decorous painter
would throw the veil now.


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