But she must tell Hetta should she ultimately make up her mind to marry the man, and in that case the sooner this was done the better. On that night she did not make up her mind. Ever and again as she declared to herself that she would not marry him, the picture of a comfortable assured home over her head, and the conviction that the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" would be powerful for all things, brought new doubts to her mind. But she could not convince herself, and when at last she went to her bed her mind was still vacillating. The next morning she met Hetta at breakfast, and with assumed nonchalance asked a question about the man who was perhaps about to be her husband. "Do you like Mr. Broune, Hetta?"
"Yes;—pretty well. I don't care very much about him. What makes you ask, mamma?"
"Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so truly kind to me as he is."
"He always seems to me to like to have his own way."
"Why shouldn't he like it?"
"He has to me that air of selfishness which is so very common with people in London;—as though what he said were all said out of surface politeness."
"I wonder what you expect, Hetta, when you talk of—London people? Why should not London people be as kind as other people? I think Mr. Broune is as obliging a man as any one I know. But if I like anybody, you always make little of him. The only person you seem to think well of is Mr. Montague."
"Mamma, that is unfair and unkind. I never mention Mr. Montague's name if I can help it,—and I should not have spoken of Mr. Broune, had you not asked me."