George Frederick Cheffington, fifth Viscount Castlecombe, was, in many
ways, a very clever old man. He was extremely ignorant of most things
which can be taught by books. But he had a thorough acquaintance with
practical agriculture, considerable keenness in finance, and a quick eye
to detect the weaknesses of his fellow men. On the other hand, his
overweening self-esteem led him to think that what he knew comprised
what was chiefly, if not solely, worth knowing, and his avarice
occasionally overrode his native talent for business. In his youth he
had been idle and extravagant. The former vice gave him the reputation
of a dunce at school and college, and, by a reaction which belonged to
his character, made him defiantly contemptuous of bookish men, with one
single exception, presently to be noted. As to his extravagance, that
was effectually cured by the death of his father. From the moment that
he came into possession of the family estates, which he did at about
thirty years of age, his income was administered with sagacious economy,
and by the time his two sons arrived at manhood Lord Castlecombe was a
very rich man.
If he had a soft place in his heart, it was for his son Lucius, who
resembled his dead mother in features, and also, unfortunately, in the
delicacy of his constitution. George, his heir, was like
himself--strong, tough, and hardy. Lord Castlecombe secretly admired
Lucius's talents very much, and had been highly gratified when his
second son took honours at his University. That this success had not
been followed by any particularly brilliant results later, and that
Lucius had, as it were, stuck fast in his career, had even decidedly
failed in Parliament, and had finally been shelved in a Government post
which, although lucrative, was inglorious, his lordship attributed to
the increase of folly, incapacity, and roguery which he had observed in
the world during the last twenty years or so. That a Cheffington of such
abilities as Lucius should remain undistinguished was part of the
general decadence. In politics Lord Castlecombe was a Whig of the old
school; and though he continued to vote with his party, yet the only
point on which he was thoroughly in sympathy with the Liberals--a word,
by the way, which he had come greatly to dislike, as covering far too
wide a field--was that they fought the Tories.
The person whom Lord Castlecombe most detested in all the world was his
nephew Augustus. He disliked his extravagance, his poverty, and the
biting insolence of his tongue. This antipathy had latterly added
poignancy to the old man's desire that his son should marry, and
transmit the Castlecombe title and estates in the direct line; for
Augustus was the next heir after his two cousins. It was true that the
contingency of Captain Cheffington succeeding seemed remote enough.
George Cheffington was only his senior by a couple of years, and Lucius
was his junior. But neither of them had married; and they were well on
in middle life. Lucius, indeed, seemed to have settled down into
incorrigible old bachelorhood. And although George, in answer to his
father's exhortations on the subject, always replied that he really
would think seriously of looking for a wife on his next visit to England
(persons suitable for that dignity not being to be found, it appeared,
in the particular portion of the globe where his official duties lay),
yet the years went by, and still there came no daughter-in-law, no
grandson to inherit the coronet and enjoy the broad acres of
Castlecombe. The idea that Augustus Cheffington might ever come to enjoy
them was gall and wormwood to their present owner. But he had never
breathed a word on this subject to any human being.
Mrs. Dormer-Smith was gratified by her uncle's gracious acceptance of an
invitation to dine with her, soon after his arrival in town, about the
middle of June. Lord Castlecombe did not visit her often; but that was
from no ill-will on his part. In fact, he was rather fond of Pauline. He
considered her a bit of a goose. But he thought it by no means
unbecoming in a woman to be a bit of a goose. And she had thoroughbred
manners, a gentle voice, and was still agreeable to look upon. The old
lord disliked ugly women, and maintained that the sight of them
disagreed with him like bad wine.
This consideration influenced Pauline in the choice of her guests to
meet her uncle. It was understood there was to be no large party. It had
been agreed that they should invite Mr. Bragg, who had bought a good
deal of land in Lord Castlecombe's county, was director of a company of
which the noble viscount was chairman, and of whom his lordship was
known to entertain a favourable opinion, as being a man who made no
disguise about his humble origin, and was free from the offensive
pretensions of many _nouveaux riches_. For, although Lord Castlecombe
willingly admitted that money could buy everything on which most people
valued themselves, he greatly disliked the notion that it could be
supposed to buy the things on which _he_ most valued himself.
"Well, then, Frederick," said Mrs. Dormer-Smith, "that makes four men:
my uncle, Lucius, Mr. Bragg, and yourself. Then May and I; and I thought
of having that handsome Miss Hadlow. Uncle George likes to see pretty
faces. We want another woman, but really I don't know who there is
available at this moment. There are so few odd women who ain't frights,"
pursued the anxious hostess plaintively. "If it were a man, now----There
are plenty of odd men to be had." Then, struck by a sudden inspiration,
she said, "Why shouldn't we have an odd man instead of another woman?
Uncle George gives me his arm, of course. You take Miss Hadlow, Mr.
Bragg takes May, and Lucius and the odd man go in together. Positively,
I think it would be the best arrangement of all."
"I suppose Lucius wouldn't mind, eh?"
"It certainly would be the best arrangement for _me_, at all events; for
if there are only those two girls, I can simply put my feet up on a sofa
when we go into the drawing-room, shut my eyes, and be quiet for half an
hour, which, of course, would be out of the question if there was any
woman who required to have civilities paid her; and in all probability I
shall be in a state of nervous prostration by Friday. This season with
May has tried me severely."
Mr. Dormer-Smith offering no objection, there only remained to make
choice of the "odd man," and, after a moment's reflection, Pauline
decided on young Bransby.
"Bransby!" exclaimed Mr. Dormer-Smith. "He's a dreadful prig."
"I think he's very nice, Frederick. But really that is not the point.
He's engaged, or wants to be engaged, or something of the sort, to Miss
Hadlow, so of course----"
"What? You don't mean to say that handsome girl would have such an
insignificant fellow as Bransby?"
"I mean to say nothing about it. The subject has only a faint interest
for me, Frederick. But what _is_ important is that, in any case, _he
will help to take her off_."
Mr. Dormer-Smith stared; he understood his wife's phrase, but not her
allusion. "Why, you don't suppose there's any danger of her setting her
cap at Lucius?" said he.
"I should have no objection to her doing so."
"Well, there's nobody else."
"We need not discuss it, Frederick. Please give your best attention to
the wine; you know that Uncle George is terribly fastidious about his
wine, and the worst is that if he is discontented, he will not hesitate
to say so before everybody."
That really did seem to her the worst. Most of the evils of life, she
thought, might be more endurable if people would but be discreet, and
say nothing about them.
The evil of Uncle George's public reprobation of her wine did not,
however, befall her. Lord Castlecombe was content with his dinner, and
looked round him approvingly as he sat on his niece's right hand.
"A couple of uncommonly pretty girls those," said his lordship. "They've
got on pretty frocks, too; I like a good bright colour."
Pauline had begged Miss Hadlow beforehand not to wear black, or any
sombre hue, her uncle having a special dislike to such; and Constance,
perfectly willing to please Lord Castlecombe by looking as brilliant as
she could, had arrayed herself in her favourite maize-colour.
"You have a very nice gown on, too, Pauline," added his lordship
graciously.
Mrs. Dormer-Smith privately thought her own toilette detestable. It was
a gaily-flowered brocade (a gift from her husband soon after Wilfrid's
birth), which had been hidden from the light for several years. But she
had self-denyingly caused Smithson to furbish it up for the present
occasion, and was gratified that her virtue did not go unrewarded.
"I knew you liked vivid colours, Uncle George," said she softly.
"Of course I do. Everybody does, that has the use of his eyes. Don't
believe the humbugs who tell you otherwise. Your upholsterer now will
show you some wretched washed-out rag of a thing, and try to persuade
you to cover your chairs with it, because it's _aesthetic_! Parcel of
fools! Not that the fellows who sell the things are fools. They know
very well which side their bread is buttered." Then glancing across the
table with his keen, sunken, black eyes, he continued, "That little
Miranda--what is it you call her? May? Well, May is a very good name for
her--is remarkably fresh and pretty. Good frank forehead. Not a bit like
her father. Different type. But the other girl is the beauty. Uncommonly
handsome, really."
"I'm glad you think May nice," said Mrs. Dormer-Smith. "Of course I was
anxious that you should like her. She is poor Augustus's only
child--only surviving child. You know there were five or six of them,
but the others all died in babyhood."
Lord Castlecombe did know it, and remembered it now with grim
satisfaction. At least Augustus had no male heir to come after him.
"Ah! Gus made a pretty hash of it altogether," said the old man.
But he did not say it unkindly. He would not willingly have been harsh
or brutal towards Pauline. She really was a very sweet creature, and
had, he thought, almost every quality that he could desire in the women
of his blood. For, it must be observed, Lord Castlecombe did not know
that Pauline admired aesthetic furniture, nor that she considered
Augustus to have been rather hardly treated by the Castlecombes.
"Of course," replied that gentle lady. "My poor brother's unfortunate
marriage----"
"Oh! Ah! Yes. But that, at all events, seems to have turned out better
than could have been expected. Lucius tells me there is a grandmother
who has money, and is generous."
"Not to Augustus, Uncle George; Mrs. Dobbs positively refuses to assist
Augustus."
"H'm!" grunted Uncle George, his opinion of Mrs. Dobbs's good sense
taking a sudden leap upward. "Well, my dear, people have to think of
their own interests, you know." Then, in a louder tone, "Frederick, send
me that white Hermitage. It's a very fair wine, as times go--a very fair
wine indeed."
When the ladies had left the table, young Bransby felt what he would
have called, in speaking of any one else, "a little out of it." My lord
talked with Mr. Bragg, Lucius and Frederick were discussing some item of
club politics, in the midst of which the host would now and again
interpolate some parenthetical observations addressed to young Bransby,
obviously as a matter of duty. At length, in declining the claret which
Mr. Dormer-Smith pushed towards him, Theodore took the opportunity to
say--
"Do you think I might venture to go upstairs? I have a message for Mrs.
Dormer-Smith about a little commission with which she entrusted me."
"No more wine, really? Oh, my wife will be charmed to see you," replied
Frederick, with alacrity. And, thereupon, the young man quietly left the
room.
It was true that he had undertaken a commission for Mrs. Dormer-Smith;
but he would not have prematurely withdrawn himself from the company of
a peer and a millionaire, on that account. He was moved by a far
weightier purpose. He had made up his mind to propose to Miss
Cheffington; and, if the Fates favoured him, he might do it that very
evening. For some time past--before May left Oldchester--Theodore had
been sure that he wished to marry her. There were drawbacks. She had no
money (or at all events he had not reckoned on her having any money),
and she had connections of a very objectionable kind. But he rather
dwelt on these things, as proving the disinterested nature of his
attachment. He was so much in love with May, that he liked to fancy
himself making some sacrifices on her account. As to her feelings
towards him, he was not without misgivings. But he watched her in
society at every opportunity, and had convinced himself that she was, at
all events, fancy-free. She did not even flirt; but enjoyed herself with
child-like openness:--or was bored with equal simplicity and sincerity.
As to her aunt, Theodore did not doubt that his suit would be favourably
received by Mrs. Dormer-Smith. She must, long ago, have perceived his
intentions; and he felt that his being invited to that intimate little
dinner--almost a family dinner--was strong encouragement.
Theodore was fortifying himself with this reflection as he mounted the
stairs to the drawing-room. His foot fell more and more lingeringly on
the soft, soundless carpet as he neared the door. He was on an errand
which can scarcely be undertaken with cool self-possession, even by a
young gentleman holding the most favourable view of his own merits and
prospects. One can never certainly reckon on one's soundest views being
shared. A servant carrying coffee, preceded him, and opened the
drawing-room door just as he arrived on the landing; and Theodore felt
positively grateful to the man for, as it were, covering his entrance,
and relieving him from the embarrassment of walking in alone. He entered
close behind the footman, and was, for a few moments, unperceived by the
ladies.
The room was a little dim; all the lamps being shaded with rose-colour.
Mrs. Dormer-Smith was reclining on a sofa, with closed eyes. But she was
not asleep; for beside her in a low lounging-chair, and talking to her
in a subdued voice, sat Constance Hadlow. May was at the other side of
the room, leaning with both elbows on a little table which stood in a
recess between the fireplace and a window, and apparently absorbed in a
book. Theodore thought she made a charming picture, with the soft light
falling on her fair young face and white dress; and his pulse, which had
been beating a little quicker than usual all the way upstairs, became
suddenly still more accelerated.
May looked up.
"Is that you?" she said. "Where are the others?"
It was not a very warm or flattering welcome; but Theodore was scarcely
conscious of her words. He was thinking what a fortunate chance it was
which left May isolated, so far away from the other ladies as to be out
of earshot, if one spoke in a suitably low tone. At the sound of her
niece's voice Mrs. Dormer-Smith languidly turned her head.
"Oh, please don't move, Mrs. Dormer-Smith," said Theodore, speaking in a
quick, confused way, very different from his accustomed manner. "If I am
to disturb you, I must go away at once. But I--I don't take much wine,
and he said--Mr. Dormer-Smith said he thought I might--if you don't mind
my preceding the other men by a few minutes, I will be as quiet as a
mouse."
He crossed the room and sat down by May in the shadow of a heavy
window-curtain.
The hostess murmured a gracious word or two and then closed her eyes
again. She had been a little vexed by the young man's premature arrival;
but if he was content to be quiet, and whisper to May, she need not
stand on ceremony with him. The fact was, she was listening with great
interest to Constance's account of a feud which had arisen between Lady
Burlington and Mrs. Griffin's daughter, the duchess. Constance had the
details at first hand, from Mrs. Griffin herself, on the one side, and
from Miss Polly Piper on the other: for the feud had arisen about Signor
Vincenzo Valli. The fashionable singing-master had thrown over one of
the great ladies for the other, on the occasion of some _soiree
musicale_; and the quarrel had been espoused by various personages of
distinction, whose sayings and doings with regard to it Mrs.
Dormer-Smith considered to be at once important and entertaining. She
mentally contrasted with a sigh the intelligence, tact, and correctness
of judgment which Constance brought to bear on this matter, with the
nonchalance--not to say downright levity and indifference--displayed by
May. It was impossible to get May to interest herself in the bearings of
the case. In fact, she had abandoned the discussion, and gone away to
her book; whereas this provincial girl, with not one quarter of May's
advantages, understood it perfectly, remembered the names of all the
people concerned, had a very sufficient knowledge of their relative
importance, and was able to impart to her hostess a variety of minute
circumstances, narrated in a low, quiet tone, free from emphasis or
emotion, which was delightfully soothing.
May, for her part, was by no means pleased to have her reading
interrupted; but politeness, and the sense that she was, in her degree,
responsible for the hospitality of the house, impelled her to close her
book at once, and to turn a good-humoured countenance towards her
companion.
"Isn't Uncle Frederick coming?" she asked, finding nothing better to say
at the moment.
"Presently. Are you in a great hurry to see him?" returned Theodore.
"Oh no; I was amusing myself very well."
"Are you angry with me, for interrupting you?"
"Oh no," answered May again. But this second "Oh no" was not quite so
hearty as the first.
"May I see what you have been reading?"
She pushed the book towards him.
"'Mansfield Park.' Whose is it?"
"Good gracious! You don't mean to say that you don't know?"
"I don't read novels," said Theodore loftily, but not severely. It was
all very well for women to have that weakness.
"But this is an English classic! Mr. Rivers says so. You really ought to
know who wrote 'Mansfield Park,' even if you have never read it. It is
one of Jane Austen's works."
"Ah! Do you--do you like it?" said Theodore, scarcely knowing what he
said. He was playing nervously with a little ivory paper-knife which lay
on the table, and his whole aspect and manner--had not both been to some
extent concealed by the shadow of the velvet curtain--would have
betrayed to the most indifferent observer that he was agitated and
unlike himself. He felt that the precious minutes of this chance
_tete-a-tete_ were passing swiftly; he longed to profit by them; and
yet, now that the moment had come, he feared to stand the hazard of the
die, and kept deferring it by idle words.
"Oh yes! I like it, of course," answered May. "Not so much, perhaps, as
'Emma,' or 'Pride and Prejudice.' Mr. Rivers advised me to read it."
It was the second time she had mentioned Rivers's name, and this fact
stung Theodore unaccountably. It acted like a touch of the spur to a
lagging horse. He burst out, still speaking almost in a whisper, but
with some heat--
"Rivers is a happy fellow! What would I give if you cared enough about
me to follow my advice!"
"You have only to advise me to do something which I like as much as
reading Jane Austen," replied May archly. But his tone had struck her
disagreeably. She peered at him furtively as he sat in the shadow,
trying in vain to see his countenance clearly. The idea crossed her mind
that he might have taken too much wine at dinner. But it was so
repulsive an idea to her, that she felt she ought not to entertain it
without better foundation.
"It is a most fortunate chance for me to have this--this blessed
opportunity," pursued Theodore. (He had hesitated for the epithet, and
was not by any means satisfied with it when he had got it). "I have long
been wanting to speak to you."
"To me? Well, that need not have been very difficult," answered May,
edging a little away, and trying to obtain a good view of his face.
"Pardon me. It is not easy to have the privilege of a private word with
Miss Cheffington. When we meet in society, you are surrounded, as is but
too natural. And latterly, in your own home, you have been a good deal
engrossed. I could not say what I have to say before----"
He glanced over at Constance Hadlow as he spoke. This was an immense
relief to May who had been growing more and more uncomfortable, and
vaguely apprehensive. She thought she understood it all now. Conny had
been treating him with coolness and neglect. She herself had noticed
this, and now he wanted to enlist the sympathies of Conny's friend.
"Oh, I see!" she exclaimed. "It's something about Constance that you
wish to say to me."
"About Constance? Ah, May, you are cruel! You know too well your power!"
he said, endeavouring to give a pathetic intonation to his voice, but
producing only an odd, croaking, throaty sound. Then May decided, in her
own mind, that he _had_ been taking too much wine; and, angry and
disgusted, she tried to rise from her chair and leave him. But she was
hemmed in by the little table, and on her first movement, Theodore took
hold of the skirt of her dress to detain her. May turned round upon him
with a pale, indignant face, and flashing eyes.
"Don't touch my dress, if you please. I wish to go away."
"Miss Cheffington--May--you must hear what I have to say now. You must
know it without my saying, for I have loved you so long and so
devotedly. But I have a right to be heard."
May was thunderstruck. But she perceived in a moment that she had, in
one sense, done him injustice--he had not drunk too much wine. But
this----! This was worse! How far easier it would have been to forgive
Theodore if he had even got tipsy--just a little tipsy--instead of
making such a declaration! She supposed she had no right to be
disgusted; she had heard that properly behaved young ladies always took
an offer of marriage to be a great honour. But she was disgusted,
nevertheless; and so far from feeling honoured, she was conscious of a
distressing sense of humiliation. She tried, however, to keep up her
dignity, and at the same time to say what was right to this--this
dreadful young man, who had suddenly presented himself in the odious
light of wanting to make love to her.
"Oh, please don't say any more. I'm very much obliged to you. I mean I'm
extremely sorry. But I beg you won't say another word, and forget all
about it as quickly as possible."
"Forget it! Nay, that is out of the question. I could not if I would."
Theodore began to recover his self-command as May lost hers. She was
agitated and trembling. Well, he would not have had her listen to his
words unmoved. She was very young and inexperienced. And he had, it
seemed, taken her by surprise.
"Is it possible," he continued softly, "that you were quite unprepared
to hear----"
"Quite unprepared. But that makes no difference. And you really must
allow me to go away. I'm very sorry, indeed, but I can't stay here
another moment."
"Am I so repulsive?" said he, with a sentimental beseeching glance. But
he met an expression in her face which made him add quickly, in quite
another tone, "Well, well, I will prefer your wishes to my own," at the
same time drawing himself and his chair to one side.
She had looked almost capable of leaping over the table to escape. May
brushed past him, and darted away out of the room without another word.
Theodore seized hold of the book she had left behind her, and bent his
head over it. He saw not one word on the printed page beneath his eyes,
but it saved him from appearing as confused as he felt. Had he been
rejected? And, if so, was it a rejection which he was bound to consider
final? Or had he received no real answer at all? Gradually, as his
throat grew less dry, his head less hot, and his brain more clear, he
arrived at the conclusion that he had virtually had no answer. May was
little more than a child, and he had startled her. Then he remembered
that word of May's, "It is about Constance you wish to speak to me."
Could she be under any misapprehension as to his position with regard to
Constance? The idea was fraught with comfort. That, at least, he could
set right, and without delay. He rose and walked across the room at once
to Mrs. Dormer-Smith's sofa.
At this moment the procession of men, headed by Lord Castlecombe,
arrived from the dining-room. Constance glided away, leaving her vacant
chair for Theodore, who immediately occupied it, thus cutting off Mrs.
Dormer-Smith from the rest of the company. That lady looked anxiously
across his shoulder.
"_Would_ you," she said to Theodore, "would you be so very good as to
ask my husband to inquire where Miss Cheffington is? My uncle would like
to talk to her, I know; and----Oh, there she is! Thanks. Don't trouble
yourself."
May had returned to the drawing-room; but instead of going near her
noble grand-uncle, she perversely seated herself in a remote nook beside
Mr. Bragg, with whom she presently began a conversation, keeping her
face persistently turned away from every one else. Her noble grand-uncle
did not seem to care. His lordship marched straight up to Miss Hadlow,
and stood before her, coffee-cup in hand, with his curious air of
perfectly knowing how to behave like a fine gentleman whenever he should
think it worth while. Lucius and Frederick were continuing their club
discussion, which possessed the advantage--for persons of leisure--of
having neither beginning nor end, and of being indefinitely elastic.
Pauline took in the whole room with one comprehensive glance, and then
leant back against her cushions with a sigh, which, if not contented,
was resigned. She made no effort to recall May to her duty towards Lord
Castlecombe.
"You must forgive me, Mr. Bransby," she said graciously, "if I have been
selfish in engrossing Miss Hadlow. If you don't take care, my uncle will
do the same! Lord Castlecombe admires her very much."
Theodore cleared his throat, settled his cravat with a rather unsteady
hand, and looked at her as solemnly as if he were about to commence an
oration. But all he managed to say was--
"There has been a mistake, Mrs. Dormer-Smith."
"A mistake?"
"Yes. I have some reason to believe that you are under a wrong
impression about me."
His hostess faintly raised her eyebrows, and answered with a smile, "I
hope not: for all my impressions of you are very pleasant."
Theodore bowed gravely. "You are very kind," said he. "It is important
to me to set this matter right. You perhaps imagine--some one may have
told you that I and Miss Hadlow--there has been, I believe, some idle
gossip coupling our names together."
"Not very unnaturally," said Mrs. Dormer-Smith, still smiling. But she
began to wonder what he could be driving at.
"Well, I do think it hard that one cannot be on friendly terms with a
person one has known all one's life without being supposed to be engaged
to her."
"Or him," put in Pauline quietly.
"Of course. I mean, of course, that it is particularly unfair to the
lady. But it puts a man in a false position too. I have just been
speaking to May----"
Then, in an instant, the true state of the case flashed on Mrs.
Dormer-Smith, to her unspeakable consternation. This, then, was her
model young man, whom she had pronounced to be so "nice" and so "quiet;"
and who, moreover, had always expressed the most proper sentiments on
the subject of unequal marriages! She felt herself to be of all ladies
the most persecuted by fate.
"Oh," she said, coldly interrupting him; "it was scarcely necessary to
say anything to Miss Cheffington on the subject."
But Theodore was beyond taking heed of any snub or check of that kind.
"One moment," he said, breathing quickly. "If you will allow me to
finish what I was saying, you will see----I am, as you must have
perceived, deeply attached to your niece."
"No, no," protested Mrs. Dormer-Smith faintly. "I never perceived it."
"Then that must have been because you were looking in a wrong direction.
You were misled about Constance Hadlow; otherwise, the nature of my
attentions could scarcely have escaped you."
"And you say that you have been speaking to--to my niece?"
"I have this evening told her how devotedly I love her."
"Good heavens!" whispered Mrs. Dormer-Smith, letting her head sink back
among the sofa-cushions. "And what was her reply?"
"Her reply was--well, practically, it was no reply at all. May was
agitated and startled, and I think she had believed that foolish gossip
about my engagement to Miss Hadlow. But I trust to you to explain----"
"Pray, Mr. Bransby, say no more. I regret extremely that this should
have happened."
"Oh, but I don't know that I have any reason to despair," he answered
naively.
This was almost more than Pauline could endure. She got up from the
sofa, and plaintively murmuring, "Say no more; pray say no more. I
really am not equal to it at present," fairly walked away from him.
That night when the guests were gone, Mrs. Dormer-Smith sent for her
husband to her dressing-room, and revealed to him what young Bransby had
said. His indignation at the young man's presumption was equal to her
own: although not wholly on the same grounds.
"You will have to talk to him, Frederick," she said. "When he went away
he said something about requesting an early interview. _I_ cannot stand
any more of it. It upsets me too frightfully. Of course, you won't
quarrel with him. Just give him politely to understand that it is out of
the question. Fortunately, May appears to have been as much _outree_ by
this preposterous proposal as I could desire. May behaved very nicely
to-night altogether. I was pleased with her."
"H'm! Oh yes; but I thought she might have paid a little more attention
to your uncle. She never went near him after we came upstairs. I think
she talked to old Bragg more than to any one else."
"Frederick," said his wife slowly, "do you know that Lady Hautenville is
making a dead set at Mr. Bragg for Felicia?"
"Is she?"
"Yes. Mrs. Griffin told me all about it. They are moving heaven and
earth to catch him."
"Really? Well, _bonne chance_!"
"It would be _mauvaise chance_ for him, poor man! Felicia has a
frightful temper, and incredibly extravagant habits. She must be over
her eyebrows in debt. But I fancy Mr. Bragg has better taste."
Her meaning tone made her husband look at her with sudden earnestness.
"What do you mean?" he asked brusquely.
Mrs. Dormer-Smith put her hand to her forehead. "Let me entreat you not
to raise your voice!" she said. "I have had quite enough to try my
nerves this evening. I mean that I think Mr. Bragg is interested in May.
It would be a splendid match for her."
"_What?_" cried Frederick, disregarding his wife's request, and raising
his voice considerably. "Old Bragg!"
Pauline turned on him impressively. "Frederick," she said, speaking with
patient mildness, as one imparting higher lore to some untutored savage,
"Mr. Bragg is barely fifty-four; and his income--entirely within his own
control--is over sixty thousand a year."