Lady Bellingham laid down the haresfoot, and turned a brightening countenance upon her niece. “Do you suppose perhaps he may offer for you, Deb? Oh, if that were to happen-! I declare I should die of very joy! He is the richest man in London. Now, don’t, don’t, I implore you, take one of your dislikes to him! Only think how our troubles would vanish!”
Deborah could not help laughing, but she shook her head as well, and said: “My dear aunt, I am persuaded no such thought has entered Mr Ravenscar’s head! I wish you will not think so much about my marriage. I doubt I was born to wear the willow.”
“Never say so, Deb! Why, you are so handsome you have even turned Ormskirk’s head—not that I should like you to become his mistress, because I am sure it is not the sort of thing your poor father would have wished for you at all, besides putting you in an awkward situation, and quite ruining all your chances of making a good match. Only if it is not to be Ormskirk, it must be marriage.”
“Nonsense! Put all these bills away, ma’am, and forget them. We have had a run of bad luck, it’s true, and have been monstrously extravagant besides, but we shall come about, trust me!”
“Not with Indian muslin at ten shillings the yard, and wheatstraw for bedding a crown the truss, or the bushel, or whatever it is,” said Lady Bellingham gloomily.
“Wheatstraw?” asked Miss Grantham, wrinkling her brow.
“Horses,” explained her aunt, with a heavy sigh.
Miss Grantham seemed to feel the force of this, and once more bent her head over the bills in her hand. After a prolonged study of these, she said in a daunted voice: “Dear ma’am, do we never eat anything but salmon and spring chickens in this house?”
““We had a boiled knuckle of veal and pig’s face last week,” replied Lady Bellingham reflectively. “That was for our dinner, but we could not serve it at the suppers, my love.”
“No,” agreed Miss Grantham reluctantly. “Perhaps we ought not to give two suppers every night.”