“But it is such a descent. Think of Lord Artingale.”
“Don’t say that, dear,” said Mrs Mallow. “I have thought over it so long. You say yourself that she is a good, sweet girl, and I am sure when I saw her I thought so, too. Well, then, why should pride stand in the way?”
“Yes, she is very nice,” said the Rector, “and I am willing to forget all about birth and position; but then there are our girls.”
“But if it is to be the winning of our boy to the life we wish him to lead? I’m sure he loves her very dearly.”
“Better than himself,” said the Rector, bitterly.
“Oh, Eli, do not talk like that,” sighed the invalid. “For my sake and his—let pride be set aside. If Henry Artingale really cares for Cynthia he will not mind, and as for Mr Perry-Morton, I heard when we were in town that his father made an immense fortune in some very low class trade. Say yes, and let us hope that Sage—”
“Sage!” said the Rector. “Bitter herb! A pity it is not Rue. Bitter herbs for us to eat. Heigho! nothing but troubles, I suppose. Then you quite adopt her now?”
“For my boy’s sake—yes,” said the invalid. “Then you do give way?”
“For the last time—yes.”
“And you will go and see the Portlocks?”