“If I had not your assurance to the contrary, Mrs. Mavick,” he said one day in a pet, “I should think she shunned me.”
“Oh, no, Lord Montague, that could not be. I told you that she had had a peculiar education; she is perfectly ignorant of the world, she is shy, and—well, for a girl in her position, she is unconventional. She is so young that she does not yet understand what life is.”
“You mean she does not know what I offer her?”
“Why, my dear Lord Montague, did you ever offer her anything?”
“Not flat, no,” said my lord, hesitating. “Every time I approach her she shies off like a young filly. There is something I don't understand.”
“Evelyn,” and Mrs. Mavick spoke with feeling, “is an affectionate and dutiful child. She has never thought of marriage. The prospect is all new to her. But I am sure she would learn to love you if she knew you and her mind were once turned upon such a union. My lord, why not say to her what you feel, and make the offer you intend? You cannot expect a young girl to show her inclination before she is asked.” And Mrs. Mavick laughed a little to dispel the seriousness.
“By Jove! that's so, good enough. I'll do it straight out. I'll tell her to take it or leave it. No, I don't mean that, of course. I'll tell her that I can't live without her—that sort of thing, you know. And I can't, that's just the fact.”
“You can leave it confidently to her good judgment and to the friendship of the family for you.”
Lord Montague was silent for a moment, and seemed to be looking at a problem in his shrewd mind. For he had a shrewd mind, which took in the whole situation, Mrs. Mavick and all, with a perspicacity that would have astonished that woman of the world.
“There is one thing, perhaps I ought not to say it, but I have seen it, and it is in my head that it is that—I beg your pardon, madam—that damned governess.”