“I suppose so; but a marriage is a marriage, and a sacred thing, whatever the Americans may say.”
“A sacred swindle, this particular one was, my dear mother. Anyhow, the young woman is here and I have met her, and I don’t think I ever met a more clearheaded young woman. She practically runs that big dairy of her father’s off her own bat—they send a thousand gallons of milk to London every morning.”
In a moment she perceived what was the origin of her son’s zeal in the matter of dairy work; her heart sank. But she made no sign. She only remarked:
“A thousand gallons! Surely that is impossible, Jack! A thousand——”
“It’s a fact. It’s by far the biggest dairy in the county. I am going up the hill to see it one of these days; and meantime——”
He paused, and she looked up from the old lace that she was mending—she looked up interrogatively.
“Meantime I want her to give me a hint or two, and I should like, if you don’t mind, to ask her to visit you.”
“Is that necessary, do you think? Wouldn’t she feel more at home if she looked in at the farm? She could then see in a moment at what end to begin to work as regards your improvements.”
“I think that she would feel at home anywhere or in any society,” said he. “You would agree with me if you saw her and had a chat. She is really a very clever girl.” Jack Wingfield’s mother had a natural antipathy to clever girls. She had met a few in the course of her life with a reputation for cleverness, and for some reason or other the impression that she had acquired of them and their ways was that a clever girl was another name for a scheming girl, and that whether she was called clever or scheming she was an unscrupulous girl. That was why she shook her head, saying:
“I’m not sure that clever girls are quite at home in my company, Jack. I know that I am never at home in theirs.”