"What is she, then? She's at least respectable, I hope!"
"At present she's a—a blanchisseuse de fin—that is considered respectable here."
"Why, that's a washer-woman, isn't it?"
"Well—rather better than that, perhaps—de fin, you know!—things are so different in Paris! I don't think you'd say she was very much like a washer-woman—to look at!"
"Is she so good-looking, then?"
"Oh yes; extremely so. You may well say that—very beautiful, indeed—about that, at least, there is no doubt whatever!"
"And of unblemished character?"
Taffy, red and perspiring as if he were going through his Indian-club exercise, was silent—and his face expressed a miserable perplexity. But nothing could equal the anxious misery of those two maternal eyes, so wistfully fixed on his.
After some seconds of a most painful stillness, the lady said, "Can't you—oh, can't you give me an answer, Mr. Wynne?"
"Oh, Mrs. Bagot, you have placed me in a terrible position! I—I love your son just as if he were my own brother! This engagement is a complete surprise to me—a most painful surprise! I'd thought of many possible things, but never of that! I cannot—I really must not conceal from you that it would be an unfortunate marriage for your son—from a—a worldly point of view, you know—although both I and McAllister have a very deep and warm regard for poor Trilby O'Ferrall—indeed, a great admiration and affection and respect! She was once a model."