“That alters everything,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because companions, like Grooms of the Chambers, do not figure in the
table of relative precedence, whereas. . . .”
Spring stared out of the window and into the park.
“You’ve seen him,” she said. “Twice. But then you knew that.”
Willoughby nodded.
“I should say,” he said quietly, “that he was one of the best.”
“In fact, if I don’t accept, I shall be selling a bed of roses for the
second ‘o’ in smoke?”
Willoughby set his teeth.
“Dear Spring,” he said, “I can’t advise your heart—only your head. But
I’m bound to say that, placed as you are, you should do what your head
tells you, if you possibly can. Think of the future.”
“I do,” said Spring. “That’s what worries me so.”
“Supposing Mrs. Le Fevre were to die and you to fall sick.”
“Supposing my husband treated me like a dog.”
“I’m quite sure he wouldn’t,” said Bagot.
“He wouldn’t do it twice,” said Spring sweetly.
“The point is,” said Willoughby, swallowing, “that companions can be
given notice, but wives can’t.”
“Wives can’t give notice, either.”
“I’ve heard of its being done.”
“Then you advise me to take my precious offer and thank my stars.”
“How can I? But I can point out that a girl in your present position is
up against it. You can’t get away from that. Think. You depend for the
bread you eat upon somebody else’s whim. I bet you’ve never saved. You
haven’t had time. And so, you see, it’s vital that, if you can improve
your position—scramble on to firmer ground—you should. Well, you’ve
got a roaring chance. He’s rich, of course, and a white man—two pretty
good points, you know. I don’t suggest that, if you were not a
companion, you couldn’t have half London at your feet; but, as it is, my
lady, you don’t get a show. So that this chance that’s come your way may
never come by again. If you were rich, I should tell you to please your
heart. As it is, you don’t dislike him, you’ve no reason to think he
won’t do you slap up—I’m perfectly certain he will—and so I simply
suggest you should please your head.”
“Which do you do?” said Spring.
“I’m a man.”
“Exactly, and you jolly well please your heart.”
“Not at all,” said Bagot, “I——”
“I imagine you could do better than serve the Harps. I mean, you weren’t
born or bred to fix parlours, but, because you’re mad about Chancery,
you just do.”
This was unanswerable.