“Married!” she exclaimed; “and to whom?” She stiffened all over as she added, “I trust she is a reputable person?”
“Rather.”
“Is it one of Lady Barron’s nieces?”
“No, no,” with a gesture of indignant scorn; “someone much younger and prettier. You know Mrs. Fenchurch?”
“Very slightly,” she answered loftily.
“Well, it’s her niece.”
“What—that little Miss Glyn?”
“Ye-es; but she’s not so little, a good five foot seven.”
“But, my dear Hugo, I understand she’s only a schoolgirl.”
“She’s past seventeen—everyone doesn’t marry when they are middle-aged” (an unfilial rap at his mother). “She is awfully pretty; extraordinarily good-looking, I may say, and accomplished. I heard her playing and singing at the Bonhams’, and I tell you she astonished them.”