"Why, mother? I see no cause for distress," he said, abruptly.
"No, my dear; men all possess the happy faculty of never seeing that which lies straight before their eyes. It is one of their special gifts—you have it to perfection."
"Do speak out what you mean, mother; that satire of yours puzzles me. What do I not see that I ought to see?"
"Nothing very particular. What I mean is this, Lance, that I am almost afraid Lady Marion has been too much with us for her peace of mind. I think, when you go back to England on this wild-goose chase of yours, that she will feel it deeply."
He looked anxiously at her.
"Do you, mother, really think that?" he asked.
"I do, indeed. Of course I know, Lance, no words of mine will ever avail; but it seems to me you are in this position—if you leave Lady Marion and return to your pretty dairy-maid that Lady Marion will never be happy again. If you marry Lady Marion and dower that young person with a good fortune she will marry some one in her own rank of life and be much happier than she could be with you."
"Ah, mother," he said, sadly, "you do not know Leone."
"No, and never shall; but I know one thing—if I stood in your place and was compelled to make one or the other unhappy, I know which it would be. In marrying Lady Marion you make yourself at once and you delight me, you gratify every one who knows and loves you. In marrying that tempestuous young person you cut yourself adrift from fame, friends, and parents."
"But honor, mother, what about my honor?"