“Oh, no, Mrs Hampton.”
“Thank goodness! You gave me quite a turn. Then it’s some other young man?”
“Indeed, no.”
“Are you sure? Don’t be afraid to confess to me. Yes, you are sure. I can read you like a book. My dear, you don’t love anyone else, and you don’t love George Harrington.”
“But I shall—I am sure I shall.”
“No. You can’t grow that plant, my dear. It comes up of itself, like mushrooms. You may get spawn from the best seedsmen, and make a bed and grow some leathery, tasteless things that look like mushrooms, but they’re no more like the real thing than your grown love is like the genuine article. No, my dear, it won’t do, so take my advice, give up your rich man, and come and live with us till the right one comes.”
“No, no; I cannot, George Harrington expects me to be his wife, and I shall pray to God to make me all that is true and loving to the man chosen for my husband.”
“Then I’ve done my duty that way, so I’m at rest. Now, about something else.”
“Yes, Mrs Hampton?” said Gertrude in alarm.
“Take him in hand, my dear, and try and mould him into a better shape.”