“Yes; it’s all settled. I proposed down at Hurst, and thought it was all over; but her ladyship kindly tells me that I may hope.”
“Sir Grantley Wilters,” cried Maude, rising, “I am not of course ignorant of what mamma’s wishes are, but let me tell you as a gentleman that this subject is very distasteful to me, and that I can never, never think otherwise of you than I do now.”
“Oh, yes, you will,” said Sir Grantley, in a most unruffled manner. “You are very young, don’t you know. Think differently by and bye. Bad job this about poor Melton.”
Maude started, and her eyes dilated slightly.
“Thought he was a decent fellow once, but he’s regularly going to the dogs.”
“Mr Melton is a friend of mine, Sir Grantley—a very dear friend of mine,” cried Maude, crushing the stiff paper of the note she held in her hand.
“Say was, my dear Maude,” said Sir Grantley, making pokes at the pearl buttons on his patent leather boots with his walking cane. “Poor fellow! Was all right once, but he’s hopelessly gone now.”
“I will not believe it,” cried Maude indignantly. “It is cruel and ungentlemanly of you to try to blacken Mr Melton thus when he is not present.”
“Cruel perhaps, but kind,” said Sir Grantley; “ungentlemanly, no.” He drew himself up slightly, as he spoke. “Poor beggar, can’t help being poor, you know. They say—”
“Sir Grantley, I will not believe anything against Mr Melton,” cried Maude with spirit.