“You told Mrs Chute so this afternoon, mother! Has she been here?”
“Of course she has, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne with asperity. “Do you suppose because I am humbled in my position in life I am going to give up all society? Of course I look upon it as a degradation to have to associate with a woman like Mrs Chute—a very vulgar woman indeed; but if my daughter chooses to place me in such a position as this I must be amiable and kind to my neighbours. She is a very good sort of woman in her way, but I let her know the differences in our position, and—yes, of course I did—told her that my daughter might be riding in her carriage now if she liked, instead of drudging at her school; for I’m sure, though he did not say so, Edward Geringer would have kept a brougham for you at least, if you would only consent, even now, to be his wife. Why, only last week he said—”
“Mother, have you heard from Mr Geringer again?” cried Hazel, whose cheeks were crimsoning.
“Of course I have, my dear child. Why should I not hear from so old a friend? He said that if you would reconsider your determination he should be very, very glad.”
“But you did not write back, mother?”
“Indeed I did, my dear. Do you suppose I should ever forget that I am a lady? I wrote back to him, telling him that I thought adversity was softening your pride, and that, though I would promise nothing, still, if I were a man, I said, in his position, I should not banish hope.”
“O mother, mother! how could you write to him like that?” cried Hazel piteously.
“Because I thought it to be my duty,” said Mrs Thorne with dignity. “Young people do not always know their own minds.”
Hazel turned away to busy herself over some domestic task, so that her mother should not read the annoyance in her face.
“Mrs Chute is a very weak, silly woman, Hazel, and I feel it to be my duty to warn you against her, and—and her son.”