Her voice sounds choking; no doubt it is emotion. She rises and goes to the window. The emotion seems to have got into her shoulders.
"All which proves," goes on Lady Rylton, turning to Margaret, "that a marriage based on friendship, even between two young people, is often successful."
"But surely in your case there was love on one side," says Miss
Knollys, a little impatiently. "My uncle——"
"Oh, he adored me!" cries she ecstatically, throwing up her pretty hands, her vanity so far overcoming her argument that she grows inconsistent. "You know," with a little simper, "I was a belle in my day."
"I have heard it," says Margaret hastily, who, indeed, has heard it ad nauseam. "But with regard to this marriage, Tessie, I don't believe you will get Maurice to even think of it."
"If I don't, then he is ruined!" Lady Rylton gets up from her chair, and takes a step or two towards Margaret. "This house-party that I have arranged, with this girl in it, is a last effort," says she in a low voice, but rather hysterically. She clasps her hands together. "He must—he must marry her. If he refuses——"
"But she may refuse him," says Margaret gently; "you should think of that."
"She—she refuse? You are mad!" says Lady Rylton. "A girl—a girl called Bolton."
"It is certainly an ugly name," says Margaret in a conciliatory way.
"And yet you blame me because I desire to give her Rylton instead, a name as old as England itself. I tell you, Margaret," with a little delicate burst of passion, "that it goes to my very soul to accept this girl as a daughter. She—she is hateful to me, not only because of her birth, but in every way. She is antagonistic to me. She—would you believe it?—she has had the audacity to argue with me about little things, as if she—she," imperiously, "should have an opinion when I was present."