“You have talked to me enough for one day, mother,” said the young man firmly; “and I must go.”
“But where, dear? You are not going to the Vicarage to ask if what I have told you is true? I had it from dear Beatrice’s own lips, and she is terribly cut up about it.”
“I am not going to the Vicarage, mother,” said the young man firmly. “I am going down to the school to ask Miss Thorne.”
“George, my dear son!”
Her answer was the loudly closing door, and directly after she heard steps upon the gravel-drive.
She ran to the window, and could see that her son was walking rapidly across the park; for George Canninge was so deeply considering the words he had heard that he would not wait for his horse.
“It is monstrous!” cried Mrs Canninge, stamping angrily. “It shall never be! It would be a disgrace!”
The next minute she had thrown herself angrily into her son’s chair, and sat there with clenched hands and lowering brow. A minute later, and she was acting as most women do when they cannot make matters go as they wish. Mrs Canninge took out her pocket-handkerchief, and shed some bitter, mortified tears.