Mrs. Edis snorted in her wrath and disgust as she rose to her feet and thumped the floor with her stick. “Gammon! Do you expect me to believe that that is what the world has come to? Fighting and scratching policemen, going to gaol, speaking on a public platform! Has that become the substitute for a great English lady?”
“Oh, let us say no more about it. I recognize it is hopeless. If you still believe that a woman’s highest destiny is to be an English duchess— Do sit down. There is so much else to talk about.”
Mrs. Edis resumed her seat, but still frowning. She had quite forgotten her remorse.
“I want to talk about poor little Fanny—”
“Poor little Fanny?”
“Who has the best memory in the world? Who was the belle of the West Indies in her day? I have an idea that Fanny looks exactly as you did at her age. And she is not too unlike you in other things —”
“Arrant nonsense. What are you driving at?”
“I mean that youth has its rights, and you are depriving Fanny of hers.”
“I have replanted the entire estate and built a mill. Fanny will be rich one day. I can’t abide the minx, but I know my duty to my son’s child, and the last of my race.”
“So that is to be Fanny’s fate? A little West Indian planter! When she dreams of nothing but love and marriage —”