“You own to it, then?” said his father. “Own to it, if you like to call it so, sir. And now, pray, where is the harm?”
Mrs Mallow withdrew her hand from her son’s grasp, and looked in his face with a terribly pained expression, for, with all her gentleness of disposition, the sense of caste was in her very strongly; and with all his failings, she had looked upon Cyril as a noble representative of the mingled blood of the old family Mallows and the Heskeths from whom she sprang.
“I am to understand, then,” said the Rector, “that you propose honouring us with a daughter chosen from the people here.”
“I don’t say yes, and I don’t say no,” replied Cyril, cavalierly. “I think I have heard you say often that Sage was a very nice girl.”
“Sage?”
“Yes, Sage. I think you had the pleasure of baptising her by her herbaceous name, so you ought to know.”
The Rector exchanged glances with his wife, whose face wore a very pitiable look.
“I have—yes—certainly—often said that Miss Portlock was a very good, sensible girl,” he said at last.
“Well, then, what more do you want, sir? I suppose you expect a man to think about such things at some time in his life?”
“But have you proposed for her hand?” said his mother, faintly.