“Stuff, Lady Vargrave! stuff; we accustom ourselves to these things. Do I look like a man who has stood behind a counter? rank is a glove that stretches to the hand that wears it. And the child, dear child,—dear Evelyn, she shall be the admiration of London, the beauty, the heiress, the—oh, she will do me honour!”
“She will, she will!” said Lady Vargrave, and the tears gushed from her eyes.
Lord Vargrave was softened.
“No mother ever deserved more from a child than you from Evelyn.”
“I would hope I have done my duty,” said Lady Vargrave, drying her tears.
“Papa, papa!” cried an impatient voice, tapping at the window, “come and play, papa—come and play at ball, papa!”
And there, by the window, stood that beautiful child, glowing with health and mirth—her light hair tossed from her forehead, her sweet mouth dimpled with smiles.
“My darling, go on the lawn,—don’t over-exert yourself—you have not quite recovered that horrid sprain—I will join you immediately—bless you!”
“Don’t be long, papa—nobody plays so nicely as you do;” and, nodding and laughing from very glee, away scampered the young fairy. Lord Vargrave turned to his wife.
“What think you of my nephew—of Lumley?” said he, abruptly.