“Only one thing, dear. It does strike me as curious that such a girl as Edith should be so attached to men like Dick Learmer and Lord Devene, for she is fond of them both.”
“Relationship, I suppose; also the latter has been very kind to her, and doubtless she is grateful.”
“Yes, most kind; indeed, he was her guardian until she came of age, and has practically supported her for years. But it isn’t gratitude, it is sympathy between her and him. They are as alike in character, mentally, I mean, as—as they are in face.”
Rupert laughed, for to compare the blooming Edith with the faded, wrinkled Devene, or even her quick humour that turned men and things to mild ridicule, with his savage cynicism which tore them both to pieces and stamped upon their fragments, seemed absurd.
“I can’t see the slightest resemblance,” he said. “You are cultivating imagination in your old age, mother.”
She looked up to answer, then thought a moment, and remarked:
“I daresay that you are perfectly right, Rupert, and that these things are all my fancy; only, my dear boy, try to make her go to church from time to time, that can’t do any woman harm. Now I have done with criticisms, and if I have made a few, you must forgive me; it is only because I find it hard to think that any woman can be worthy of you, and of course the best of us are not perfect, except to a lover. On the whole, I think that I may congratulate you, and I do so from my heart. God bless you both; you, my son, and Edith, my daughter, for as such I shall regard her. Now, dear, good-night, I am tired. Ring the bell for the maid, will you?”
He did so, and then by an afterthought said:
“You remember that I have to go away. You will speak to Edith, won’t you?”
“Of course, my love, when Edith speaks to me,” the old lady replied, with gentle dignity. “But why, under the circumstances, are you going?”