To my surprise, Reggie was not at all pleased when I told him of the
work I had secured. I had been so delighted, and papa thought it an
excellent thing for me. He said the Count was a genius and I would learn
a great deal from him. Reggie, however, looked glum and sulky and said
in his prim English way:
“You are engaged to be married to me, and I don’t want my wife to be a
working girl.”
“But, Reggie,” I exclaimed, “I have been working at home, doing all
kinds of painting for different people and helping papa.”
“That’s different,” he said sulkily. “A girl can work at home without
losing her dignity, but when she goes out--well, she’s just a working
girl, that’s all. Nice girls at home don’t do it. My word! My people
would take a fit if they thought I married a working girl. I’ve been
trying to break it to them gradually about our engagement. I told them I
knew very well a girl who was the granddaughter of Squire Ascough of
Macclesfield, but I haven’t had the nerve yet to tell them--to--er--”
I knew what he meant. He hadn’t told them about us here, how poor we
were, of our large family, and how we all had to work.
“I don’t care a snap about your old people,” I broke in heatedly, “and
you don’t have to marry me, Reggie Bertie. You can go back to England
and marry the girl they want you to over there. (He had told me about
her.) And, anyway, I’m sick and tired of your old English prejudices and
notions, and you can go right now--the sooner the better. I hate you.”
The words had rushed out of me headlong. I was furious at Reggie and his
people. He was always talking about them, and I had been hurt and
irritated by his failure to tell them about me. If he were ashamed of me
and my people I wanted nothing to do with him, and now his objecting to
my working made me indignant and angry.
Reggie, as I spoke, had turned deathly white. He got up as if to go, and
slowly picked up his hat. I began to cry, and he stood there hesitating
before me.
“Marion, do you mean that?” he asked huskily.