"Well, my dear, this was thrust under my very nose. No, I hate all I have seen of the people, except the Hurlstones. I except them, for they are thoroughly well bred, nice people, and their house is charming."
"There are plenty of houses as good—indeed better, to my taste—and plenty of people as nice."
"You didn't do them justice, Gracey, in your letters to me. They are a charming family. I was most agreeably surprised in Beatrice Hurlstone. She would hold her own in any London drawing-room."
"I didn't say she would not, aunty. I am sure I said nothing against them. I was very grateful for all their kindness and hospitality."
"Oh! grateful. We know what that means. You didn't like them, and you put Mordy off from liking the girl."
"My dear aunt! What nonsense! As if anything I could say would influence him in the slightest degree in that way! He flirted with her at first, and then he found some one he admired more."
"That is just it. If he will marry an American, I'd rather it was Beatrice Hurlstone than any one. I don't at all like the idea of Miss Planter, whom he raves to me about. He sha'n't marry her, if I can help it. In the first place, I am told she is a desperate flirt. Then her father is one of those speculators who is rich to-day and may be poor to-morrow, and will only give his daughter an income—will settle nothing upon her. Whereas Mr. Hurlstone's large fortune will be divided equally between his son and his daughter—he told me so himself."
"That was considerate of him," said Grace, with one of her rare touches of sarcasm.
And the hero of their talk entering the room at that moment, there was an abrupt change in the conversation.
"I find her looking very well, Mordy!" cried his aunt. "Is it the New England parsonage that has given her those roses? She looked like a squeezed lemon four months ago."