Lucy had no very clear idea who the sans-culottes might be, but she assented readily, and added, in all sincerity, that her mistress would have looked lovely.
“Well, I think I should have looked nice,” said Eustacie candidly. “Only it is no use thinking of that, because instead I am going to be married.”
Lucy paused on her task of taking the pins out of her mistress’s hair to clasp her hands, and breathe ecstatically: “Yes, miss, and if I may make so bold as I do wish you so happy!”
“When one is forced into a marriage infinitely distasteful one does not hope for happiness,” said Eustacie in a hollow voice.
“Good gracious, miss, his lordship surely isn’t a-going to force you?” gasped Lucy. “I never heard such a thing!”
“Oh!” said Eustacie. “Then it is true what I have heard in France, that English ladies are permitted to choose for themselves whom they will marry!” She added despondently: “But I have not seen anyone whom I should like to have for my husband, so it does not signify in the least.”
“No, miss, but—but don’t you like Sir Tristram, miss? I’m sure he’s a very nice gentleman, and would make anyone a good husband.”
“I do not want a good husband who is thirty-one years old and who has no conversation!” said Eustacie, her lip trembling.
Lucy put down the hairbrush. “There, miss, you’re feeling vapourish, and no wonder, with everything come upon you sudden, like it has! No one can’t force you to marry against your true wishes—not in England, they can’t, whatever they may do in France, which everyone knows is a nasty murdering place!”
Eustacie dried her eyes and said: “No, but if I do not marry my cousin I shall have to live with a horrid chaperon when my grandpapa dies, and that would be much, much worse. One must resign oneself.”