“Oh, mamma, don’t say that. Glynne is the kindest and most amiable of girls, and nobody could be nicer to me than the major and Sir John.”
“Of course they are nice to you—to my daughter,” said Mrs Alleyne, pulling up her mittens—a very dingy black pair that had lain by till they were specked with a few grey spots of mildew.
“And the major thinks very highly of Moray.”
“It is only natural that he should,” said Mrs Alleyne, haughtily. “But I repeat, I see no advantage of a social nature to be gained by this intimacy, even if we wished it.”
“But you forget about Moray, mamma, dear.”
“I forget nothing about your brother, Lucy. But pray, what do you mean by this allusion?”
“His need of change. He has certainly been better lately.”
“Decidedly not,” replied Mrs Alleyne, making a fresh effort to cover a very large and unpleasantly prominent vein that ran from the back of her hand above her wrist. “I have noticed that Moray is more quiet and thoughtful than ever.”
“But Mr Oldroyd said yesterday, mamma, that he was better.”
“Mr Oldroyd gave his opinion, my dear, but it was only the opinion of one man. Mr Oldroyd may be mistaken.”