“Well, for the lord’s sake, Hugh, stop prosing!” recommended Freddy. “Dashed if you aren’t as bad as Kit’s French cousin!”
The Rector cast him a withering look. “Have the goodness not to interrupt me, Freddy! While I am prepared to support Foster in his determination to marry Miss Plymstock, I cannot approve of his clandestine way of going about the business.”
“What you mean, old fellow,” said the irrepressible Mr. Standen, “is that you don’t want to be mixed up in it. Scared of Aunt Dolphinton.”
“I am not in the least scared of Aunt Dolphinton!”
“Well, if you ain’t scared of her, you’re scared of what the rest of ’em will say. Don’t blame you: told Kit I’d as lief have nothing to do with it myself. However, shouldn’t be surprised if the family thought you’d done the right thing. I can tell you one who will, and that’s m’mother. What’s more, there’s two of us in it. I won’t hedge off.”
The Rector hesitated. “That is all very well, but—”
“I’ll tell you what it is, Hugh: no sense in refusing! Paltry thing to do, because if you won’t corne up to scratch there’ll be nothing for it but for me to take ’em to the next parish first thing tomorrow morning, and hand ’em over to the parson there.”
Miss Plymstock was moved to grasp him by the hand, saying warmly: “You’ve got a great deal of commonsense, Mr. Standen, and I like you for it!”
“You like Freddy too?” said Lord Dolphinton, pleased. “I like Freddy! I like him—”
“Now you’ve set him off again!” said Freddy reproachfully.