The question was fired point-blank in all its ruthless directness. Cheriton had long cherished the opinion that the venerable occupant of the four-poster was the most consummate vulgarian of her time. In this he was doubtless correct, for the frank contempt which she cherished for anything “finicking” was apt to lead her into extreme courses. But even he, with all his cynicism, was not prepared for anything quite so straight from the shoulder. Therefore he gave ground a little. He was inclined to hum and haw.
“I am afraid, my dear Caroline,” he said, “the answer to that question must remain entirely my affair.”
“Answer me, Cheriton,” said Caroline Crewkerne, her wrinkled old lips curling with sarcasm. “Do you intend to marry my niece?”
Cheriton abated his glance. He took the glass from his eye and examined it critically. He shifted his feet a little. He then replaced the glass carefully and stuck his hands under his frock-coat.
“Yes, Caroline, I do,” he said, with admirable composure.
“Very good, Cheriton,” said the occupant of the four-poster, with ominous pleasantness. “I feel it to be my duty to inform you that George does also.”
The blow was planted with all the skill of which the occupant of the four-poster was capable. Cheriton, however, had had time to foresee it. Therefore, although unable to evade the force of it, he received it staunchly.
“But that is impossible, Caroline,” he said, with a superb assumption of indifference.
“Why impossible?” said the occupant of the four-poster, with the amiability of one who holds the whole game in her hand.
“The most ill-assorted pair in England,” said Cheriton, gravely. “The incongruity of their tastes, the dissimilarity of their appearance, their disparity in years.”