The halting step of the Baronet crossing the room was heard distinctly. He had stopped beside Sharpe. “My dear Mr. Sharpe,” he said, in a troubled voice, “I cannot permit this sacrifice. It is too—too great!”
“Then,” said Sharpe' s voice querulously, “I'm afraid we must do without your permission. I didn't reckon to find a sort o' British Jim Bradley in you. If YOU can't permit my darter to sacrifice herself by marryin' your son, I can't permit her to sacrifice her love and him by NOT marryin' him. So I reckon this yer interview is over.”
“I am afraid we are both old fools, Mr. Sharpe; but—we will talk this over with Lady Mainwaring. Come—” There was evidently a slight struggle near the chair over some inanimate object. But the next moment the Baronet's voice rose, persuasively, “Really, I must insist upon relieving you of your bag and umbrella.”
“Well, if you'll let me telegraph 'yes' to Minty, I don't care if yer do.”
When the room was quiet again, Lady Canterbridge and James Bradley silently slipped from the curtain, and, without a word, separated at the door.
There was a merry Christmas at Oldenhurst and at Nice. But whether Minty's loving sacrifice was accepted or not, or whether she ever reigned as Lady Mainwaring, or lived an untitled widow, I cannot say. But as Oldenhurst still exists in all its pride and power, it is presumed that the peril that threatened its fortunes was averted, and that if another heroine was not found worthy of a frame in its picture-gallery, at least it had been sustained as of old by devotion and renunciation.