'I am sure you may rejoice in the present Mrs Rowland Prothero,' says Mrs Jonathan; 'and you certainly need not imagine, for one moment, that she is degrading herself by marrying your son. In London he is in the first society, and meets people constantly, on equal terms, who would quite throw your Lady Marys into the shade. Does he not, Mr Jones?'
'I cannot quite enter into these points, ma'am,' says Mr Jones; 'but he and his bride are as well suited to one another as any young people I ever saw, and will be a blessing to their parish and their friends.'
'Besides, if you come to family, brother David,' says Mr Jonathan, 'ours is of considerable antiquity, and I cannot think how it got Anglicised into Prothero. You know I have been enabled to trace it back to Rhyddrch, or Rhodri, a prince who fought with and frequently defeated Ethelbald. You may not be aware, Mrs Jones, that our name, properly Prydderch, means Ap Rhyddrch, and that we owe it to this illustrious source.'
'Now, aunt,' exclaims Owen, 'never mention the Payne Perrys again. Why, you cannot light a candle to us. I am sure your Herefordshire Perry can't date back to the conquest, and here are we long before it. What date, uncle?'
'720, Owen. And I wish you, as the eldest son, would begin to write your name in the proper way. I contemn, absolutely, this altering our fine old language into that jargon of Anglo-Saxon, Danish, Norman, and French, now yclept English.
'Very well, uncle, let us spell it R, H, Y, D, D, R, C, H,—eight consonants without the aid of one single vowel. I declare the very name is courage itself,—no auxiliary forces. Gladys, I beg you will always sign yourself so when you write to Mrs Jones; and be sure you spell your own name as it ought to be spelt,—G, W, L, A, D, Y, S. Even this shows the weakness of the female sex; you do require one little vowel to help along the consonants,'
'Ha, ha, ha!' shouts Mr Prothero, 'he has you now, brother Jo.'
'Not at all. Owen seems to have forgotten that w and y are vowels. But he never had a taste for study, Rowland is quite different; and our dear niece, Claudia, is much better suited to him than to Owen, for she appreciates the wisdom of a past age.'
'The little hypocrite,' cries Owen. 'She doesn't—'
'I never could have supposed Lady Mary could be so affable,' interrupts Gladys, fearing a dispute.