“The dooce!” said my lord.
“He can think of nothing else, and really I don’t know what will be the end of it.”
“Do you approve of her?” When all was said, Cheriton considered perfect practicality to be his most eminent virtue.
“She is too far away. It would not be fair to her. I am afraid I have been weak and foolish.” Feminine humility is always pleasant to some people. “You see, she meant so much to my son that at first I had not the courage to look the facts in the face. And now that at last I have done so I fear it is too late to repair the mischief.”
“The mischief!” said Cheriton, cocking his ears at the word.
“He has asked the girl to marry him, you know, and she has consented.”
“Capital.”
“No, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim’s mother, with a little catch in her voice; “it is far from being that. It is not in the least right that she should marry him. It is not in the least right that he should have asked her.”
In some subtle way, so fine are the gradations of vanity, Cheriton felt himself to be honored by the grave vehemence of Jim’s mother. Her tone was almost tragic. Had the gray eyes been accustomed to the use of tears there is little doubt they would have shed them. She continued to honor this parcel of vanities with her maternal confidence.
“I smiled at first,” she continued. “I am afraid I encouraged him a little. I felt it might help his art.”