‘This foolish affair into which Lord Martindale and John have drawn this poor child.’
‘Aunt! aunt!’ cried Theodora, ‘you do not know what you say. It is of my own free will—uninfluenced. I would choose him, and hold fast to him through worlds of opposition.’
‘Yes, yes; we understand all that,’ said Mrs. Nesbit, with a contemptuous accent; ‘but as it cannot be at once, you will soon have enough of that overbearing temper. At twenty, there is plenty of time to get over such an affair, and form a more suitable connection.’
‘Never!’ cried Theodora.
‘What, my dear!’ said astonished Lady Martindale. ‘You engaged, and you have not told me!’
‘Only since yesterday, mamma. He spoke to papa only this morning.’
‘But who is it? Nothing that your aunt disapproves, I trust, my dear.’
‘Percy Fotheringham,’ said Theodora, standing firm, and exulting in defiance; but her aunt continued that same provoking disregard.
‘Yes, you see it is of no use to oppose her. For my part, I think her papa has acted wisely in permitting the engagement. Contradiction would embellish her hero; while, left to him, she will soon find him out. I do not concern myself, for Miss Martindale can get over a little matter of this kind.’
‘It is of no use to make protestations,’ said Theodora; and she left the room much more annoyed than she could have been by the violent opposition for which she was prepared. Cool contempt was beyond everything irritating, especially where reply was impossible, and argument undignified.