“Oh no—oh no!” exclaimed Sir Murray, impatiently. “But this place, Maudlaine—I should like it kept as it is: the timber, you know; and you would not drain the lake?”
“Oh no! of course not. But, I say, you know, I—a—a—a suppose it will be all right?”
“Right—all right?” said Sir Murray, whose face wore a cadaverous hue. “What do you mean by all right?”
“Well, you know, I mean about Isa. I haven’t said anything pointed to her yet, though we two have made it all right. She won’t refuse me, eh?”
“Refuse? No: absurd!”
“Well, I don’t know so much about that. I get thinking sometimes that she ain’t so very far gone with me. Snubs me, you know,—turns huffy, and that sort of thing.”
“My dear Maudlaine,” said Sir Murray, with a sneering laugh, which there was no need of the other interpreting, “you are too timid—too diffident for a man of your years.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said his lordship, “I don’t think I am; but she’s a style of woman I’m not used to. Don’t seem dazzled, and all that sort of thing, you know. Some women would be ready to jump out of their skins to be a viscountess, and by-and-by an earl’s wife; but she don’t—not a bit—not that sort of woman; and if I never said a word about it, I don’t believe that she would, even if I went on visiting here for years.”
“Most likely not,” said Sir Murray, dryly; “but you see that it is as I say—you are too timid—too diffident.”
“I say, though, you know,” said his lordship, “was her mother that style of woman—quiet and fond of weed-hunting—botany, you know?”