Mrs Canninge stopped, for she knew at heart without the warning of the colour coming into her son’s face, that she had gone too far; and she felt cold and bitter as she listened to her son’s next words.
“I do not consider Beatrice Lambent’s features to be vulgarly pretty,” he said.
“Oh no, of course not, George; she is very refined.”
“I misunderstood you, then,” said George Canninge coldly. “But let us understand one another, my dear mother. I find you have been thinking it probable that I should propose to Beatrice Lambent.”
“Yes, dear; and I am sure that she would accept you.”
“I daresay she would,” he replied coldly; “but such an event is not likely to be brought about for Beatrice Lambent is not the style of woman I should choose for my wife.”
He rose and quitted the room, leaving Mrs Canninge standing by the window, looking proud and angry, with her eyes fixed upon the door.
“I knew it,” she cried; “I knew it. But you shall not trifle with me, George. I am neither old nor helpless yet.”