Mrs. Lauderdale shifted her position a little, moving towards the side of the door on which the lock was placed, and laying her hand affectionately on Katharine’s, as though still to detain her.
“Yes,” she said, “I’d forgotten that we don’t wear flowers any longer. But that isn’t the question, dear. I only ask you not to send him away suddenly, with a ‘no’ that can’t possibly be taken back. I’m dreadfully afraid that you’ll hurt the poor fellow, and I can’t help feeling that he has reason—that you’ve given him reason to expect that you’ll at least consider the question. Dear child, I only ask you this once. Won’t you do it to please me? We’re all so fond of Wingfield—”
“But why? why? If I don’t mean to have him, how can I? I really can’t understand. Is there any family reason for being so particular about Mr. Wingfield’s feelings? We’ve never been so very intimate with his people.”
“Reasons,” repeated Mrs. Lauderdale, absently. “Reasons? Well, yes—but it isn’t that—” She stopped short.
“Mother!” Katharine looked keenly into her face. “You’ve been talking to him yourself! I can see it in your eyes!”
“Oh, no!” answered Mrs. Lauderdale. “Oh, no—what makes you think that?”
But she looked away, and Katharine saw the blush of confusion rising under the transparent skin in her mother’s cheek.
“Yes—you’ve given Mr. Wingfield to understand that I’m in love with him,” said Katharine, in a low voice.
“Katharine, how can you!” Mrs. Lauderdale was making a desperate effort to recover herself, but she was a truthful woman, and found it hard to lie. “You’ve no right to say such things!”
“Yes—I see,” answered Katharine, not heeding her. “It’s all quite clear to me now. You and papa have drawn him on and encouraged him, and now you’re afraid that I shall put you in an awkward position by sending him away. I see it all. That’s the reason why you’re so excited about it.”