“No, mother, nothing; but Arthur and I are in town, and I wanted to say a few words to you.”
Frederica was staying with a school-friend, so Mrs Crichton was alone; and Hugh hurried her over her cup of tea, and was unusually attentive and unusually impatient till she had finished with her maid and her orders to the hotel people, and could give her mind to his story, into the midst of which he plunged, hurrying through it with tolerable candour, and at last breaking off abruptly and waiting for his mother’s reply.
She was taken exceedingly by surprise, and though she was a woman of many words at first she hardly said anything. She was honestly desirous that her son should marry, and did not stand in that sort of relation to him which his marriage would disturb, and she was clear-sighted enough at once to recognise that this was no fancy which could be talked away.
“Mother, why don’t you speak to me?” said Hugh.
“I hardly know what to say to you, my dear. You have surprised me exceedingly; but I do not expect that anything that I say could induce you to alter your choice.”
“But, mother, you’ve seen her?” said Hugh, entreatingly.
“Yes; she is very pretty, and everyone speaks well of her; and, I have no doubt what you say about her relations is correct. But, Hugh, she is an Italian.”
“Surely, that is an unworthy prejudice!”
“Not at all. She may be as good as any English girl, but she will be different. She will not like the life of an English lady. Differences will start up in an unexpected manner. I have seen a great deal of life; and I don’t see how people are to be happy together with such thoroughly different antecedents. You will puzzle her, and she will disappoint you.”
“I would rather she disappointed me than that anyone else should fulfil my most perfect ideal,” said Hugh, ardently.