“Is there anything about her which makes her unfit to be my wife?”
Those were her son’s last words.
“Dearest Ludovic, dearest Ludovic!” and she got up and came over to him, “I do think so; I do, indeed.”
“Think what?” said he, in a tone that was almost angry.
“I do think that she is unfit to be your wife. She is not of that class from which I would wish to see you choose.”
“She is of the same class as Griselda Grantly.”
“No, dearest. I think you are in error there. The Grantlys have moved in a different sphere of life. I think you must feel that they are—”
“Upon my word, mother, I don’t. One man is Rector of Plumstead, and the other is Vicar of Framley. But it is no good arguing that. I want you to take to Lucy Robarts. I have come to you on purpose to ask it of you as a favour.”
“Do you mean as your wife, Ludovic?”
“Yes; as my wife.”