“Of course, my son.”
“Then it would be necessary for me to like her as well—from my commonplace point of view, to love her.”
“Certainly, my dear; and that I believe at heart you do.”
“Then, your dear, affectionate, motherly heart is slightly in error, for I may as well frankly tell you that I do not like Beatrice Lambent, and what is far more, I am sure that I should never love her enough to make her my wife.”
“My dear George, you give me very great pain.”
“I am very sorry, my dear mother, but you must allow me to think for myself in a matter of this sort. There: suppose we change the subject.”
He resumed, or rather seemed to resume, the reading of his paper, while the lady continued her breakfast, rather angry at what she called her son’s obstinacy, but too good a diplomatist to push him home, preferring to wait till he had had time to reflect upon her words. She glanced at him now and then, and saw that he seemed intent upon his newspaper, but she did not know that he could not keep his attention to the page, for all the while his thoughts were wandering back to the tent in Mr William Forth Burge’s grounds, then to the church, and again to the various occasions when he had seen Hazel Thorne’s quiet, grave face, as she bent over one or other of her scholars.
He thought, too, of her conversation when he chatted with her after he had taken her in to tea, and then of every turn of expression in her countenance, comparing it with that of Beatrice Lambent, but only to cease with an ejaculation full of angry contempt, “I shall not marry a woman for her pretty face.”
“Did you speak, my dear!” said Mrs Canninge.
“I uttered a thought half aloud,” he replied quietly.