Lucian Leigh’s side of the story did not meet with so favourable a reception. Like Lady Haredale, Mrs Leigh had not taken warning in time, and, while she was thinking of cautioning her son against the penniless beauty, he stood before her with the tale of his successful wooing, quite unprepared for the displeasure with which she received it.
He was entirely independent of her, and she had no power to prevent him from marrying whom he would; and when she comprehended that the offer had been made and accepted, her consternation was great.
“Lucian! In three weeks! One of those Haredales! Nothing could have grieved me more.”
“I don’t think you can mean that, mother,” said Lucian.
“You don’t know what you are doing.”
Lucian said nothing. The fewness of his words always made it difficult to argue with him. He made no protestations of passionate love, but he did not yield an inch, and only said at last—
“But I’m booked now, mother. I have proposed to her.”
“Will you not at least give in to a delay? Have you no regard to my wishes?”
“Yes,” said Lucian, “I wish you liked it. But I think I ought to settle it for myself. Anyway I have settled it.”
“And have you no misgivings?”