“Oh, dear friends,” cried Mrs. Nunn, pathetically. “We have to do with a living poet—unhappily. Byron has been in Hucknall-Torkard church these twenty years. Do advise me.”
“Stay and see it through,” said Lady Constance. “I know love when I see it. It is so rare nowadays that it fairly wears a halo. By and by it will be extinct on earth and then we shall be kneeling to St. Eros and St. Venus and forget all the naughty stories about them, just as we have forgotten the local gossip about the present saints. You cannot prevent this match. You cannot even postpone it. I regret it as much as you do, but I cannot help sympathising with them! So young and so full of high and beautiful ideals! They will be happy for a time. Who knows? He really may be a new man. Maria can convince herself of anything she chooses; I feel disposed to take a leaf out of her book.”
Mrs. Nunn set her lips, thrust her bust up and her chin out. She looked obstinate and felt implacable. “I go to-morrow. Upon that I am resolved. I should be criminal to encourage her——”
There was a tap at the door. A servant entered with a note.
“From Anne!” announced Mrs. Nunn. She dismissed the servant and read it aloud:
Dear Aunt Emily:
Miss Ogilvy has sent the coach for me, feeling sure that I have incurred your displeasure, and asking me to go at once to the Grange. I have no wish to leave you if you remain at Bath House, but if you are resolved upon going to-morrow, I shall accept her invitation. Will you not let me come in and say good bye, dear aunt? Be sure that I am deeply grateful for all you have done for me and only wish that I might spare you so much pain.
Anne.
Mrs. Nunn called in her maid and sent a verbal refusal to see her niece.