"Of course it was a surprise to you," he says.
"It was more than a 'surprise.' That is a mild word," says Lady Rodney. She is looking at him, is telling herself what a goodly son he is, so tall and strong and bright and handsome. He might have married almost any one! And now—now——? No, she cannot forgive. "It was, and must always be, a lasting grief," she goes on, in a low tone.
This is a bad beginning. Mr. Rodney, before replying, judiciously gains time, and makes a diversion by poking the fire.
"I should have written to you about it sooner," he says at last, apologetically, hoping half his mother's resentment arises from a sense of his own negligence, "but I felt you would object, and so put it off from day to day."
"I heard of it soon enough," returns his mother, gloomily, without lifting her eyes from the tiny feathered fire-screen she is holding. "Too soon! That sort of thing seldom tarries. 'For evil news rides post, while good news baits.'"
"Wait till you see her," says Geoffrey, after a little pause, with full faith in his own recipe.
"I don't want to see her," is the unflinching and most ungracious reply.
"My dear mother, don't say that," entreats the young man, earnestly, going over to her and placing his arm round her neck. He is her favorite son, of which he is quite aware, and so hopes on. "What is it you object to?"
"To everything! How could you think of bringing a daughter-in-law of—of—her description to your mother?"
"How can you describe her, when you have not seen her?"