“A parson!” shrieked Lady Enville, in her languid style.
“A parson, Orige. Hast aught against the same?”
“Oh no!—so he come not anear Blanche.”
“Wilt hold him off with the fire-fork?”
“Sir Thomas, I do beseech you, consider this matter in sober sadness. Only think, if Blanche were to take in hand any fantasy for him, after his saving of her!”
“Well, Orige—what if so?”
“I cannot bring you to a right mind, Sir Thomas!” said his wife pettishly. “Blanche,—our fairest bud and last!—to be cast away on a poor parson—she who might wed with a prince, and do him no disgrace! It were horrible!”
“Were it?” was the dry response.
“I tell you,” said Lady Enville, sitting up in her chair—always with her a mark of agitation—“I would as soon see the child in her coffin!”
“Hush, Orige, hush thee!” replied her husband, very seriously now.