‘You surely wouldn’t,’ pursued the lady, with emphasis, watching him closely; ‘you surely wouldn’t and couldn’t marry this girl as soon as your poor father was in his grave?’
‘Oh, of course not.’
Mrs. Damerel seemed relieved, but pursued her questioning.
‘You couldn’t think of marrying for at least half a year?’
‘Fanny wouldn’t wish it.’
‘No, of course not,—well now, I think I must make her acquaintance. But how weak you are, Horace! Oh, those nerves! All finely, delicately organised people, like you, make such blunders in life. Your sense of honour is such a tyrant over you. Now, mind, I don’t say for a moment that Fanny isn’t fond of you,—how could she help being, my dear boy? But I do insist that she will be very much happier if you let her marry some one of her own class. You, Horace, belong to a social sphere so far, far above her. If I could only impress that upon your modesty. You are made to associate with people of the highest refinement. How deplorable to think that a place in society is waiting for you, and you keep longing for Camberwell!’
The listener’s face wavered between pleasure in such flattery and the impulse of resistance.
‘Remember, Horace, if anything should happen at home, you are your own master. I could introduce you freely to people of wealth and fashion. Of course you could give up the office at once. I shall be taking a house in the West-end, or a flat, at all events. I shall entertain a good deal—and think of your opportunities! My dear boy, I assure you that, with personal advantages such as yours, you might end by marrying an heiress. Nothing more probable! And you can talk of such a girl as Fanny French—for shame!
‘I mustn’t propose any gaieties just now,’ she said, when they had been together for an hour. ‘And I shall wait so anxiously for news of your father. If anything did happen, what would your sister do, I wonder?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know—except that she’d get away from Camberwell. Nancy hates it.’