“If I had only spoken out the last time I was here,” said Lumley, “what a lot it would have saved us! I daresay we would have been married in a couple of years, and when our hearts were younger—though for you, Letty, mine has never changed!”
“Aunt Dorothy would never have allowed it,” replied Letty with decision; “never. And you know how she persuaded your aunt to tell me, that an engagement between us, would be your ruin.”
“Good Lord, what a woman!”
“I really married Hugo because I was terrified of her.”
“Yes, unfortunate child, and went straight out of the frying-pan, into the fire.”
“But, Lancelot, I was the last sort of wife for Hugo. I always seemed to do the wrong thing. I believe, he would have been quite happy with a woman of his own world. I was an experiment; a mistake,” and her lip quivered.
“A costly mistake for you! Poor Letty,” and he looked at her with peculiar tenderness. Now at last she should have someone to protect her; someone to stand between her, and the buffetings of Fate. “Where is your aunt?” he enquired, “dead?” the tone was positively hopeful.
“No, indeed, she is married again to a man ten years younger than herself. They live at Brighton on her money; and I’m told,—though this is dreadful gossip,—that he gambles and flirts, and leads her rather a life; but he is very good-looking, and she adores him.”
“Impossible! She never adored anything in her life but a blue plate! Letty, to turn to another much more interesting subject—you will marry me soon, won’t you—in a week?”
“Oh, no, Lancelot—he was only buried at Sharsley on Friday. Let us wait a month, since”—and she swallowed a lump in her throat—“we have waited so long.”