General Tilney surveyed his second son with a critical eye. The derision and and outright contempt of their last parting were thankfully absent from the boy's bearing and what few words he had spoken today. Education and society had long since proved a welcome cure to the unnervingly sombre disposition of infancy; nevertheless, the father wished a trace of that earlier deference remained. It was certainly not present at this hour.

He recalled as a dim memory his wife requesting a gentler manner with the children. "Henry likes you to explain things," she once advised with the graceful air which so often soothed his troubles. She might have given him the right words to prevent this state of affairs. At the very least, reason rather than threats appeared the proper weapon for this skirmish.

"You realize, of course, that three thousand pounds is a very small dowry." He adopted a civil tone and laid out his points as with his solicitor. "There will be a great deal of management needed."

"Yes sir."

At least he was not wagging that saucy tongue of his! "The girl's youth is against her, not to mention ignorance. Woodston is not just any small village, it is growing, there are numerous responsibilities. You will need to expend some energy to install her as a true mistress of the place."

"Yes sir."

His lips might be closed but their furtive smile meant he was thinking a foolishness if not voicing it. General Tilney could guess what sort of things a man intent on marrying so absurdly might have in mind. "And there is the superiority of your sister's position, what is now expected of her, the friends she must court and retain. I was fortunate enough to meet them—"

"—as was I," Henry interrupted a trifle impatiently, then stopped himself, bowed his head in repentance, and gestured for his father to continue.

"Indeed, I trust you made good use of your time in town. His Lordship introduced me to a bishop of his acquaintance, did you speak to him?"

"No sir."

"That is a great pity, and not only to your detriment but your wife's as well: your future consequence will depend on strategic advancement, notwithstanding your personal reservations. Have you at least corresponded with the Allens?"

"I—yes sir." Confusion and uncertainty now lit Henry's features.

"Good. They are in fact without heir and you should maintain that acquaintance regardless."

He looked about to argue, but then answered yet again: "Yes sir."

Well only the most womanish fancy could have believed that logic might counter lust. Still, they were engaging in a serious conversation about the matter as it deserved, and he summarized his true feelings thusly: "You could do much better."

"Aye sir," Henry agreed before adding with a smile, "but you must admit, I might do far worse."

Title from Chapter 22 of Northanger Abbey: "The imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his wishes."