Mary shook a head of sadness and perplexity.
“Somehow it doesn’t seem right to mix things in that way,” she said.
“It’s the only way that keeps ’em going,” said Mrs. Wren scornfully. “And well they know it. At least nature knows it. Look at Wrexham! Do you mean to say that his inbred strain wouldn’t be improved by Milly? And it’s the same with you and Mr. Dinneford. It’s Nature at the back of it all. It’s the call of the blood. If these old families keep on intermarrying long enough dry rot sets in.”
Mary stood a picture of woe.
“You odd creature!” said Mrs. Wren. “I’ve never met a girl with such ideas as yours. I really believe you are quite as narrow and as prejudiced as Lady Agatha Fitzboodle. To hear you talk one would think you believed rank to be a really important matter.”
Incredulous eyes were opened upon the voluble dame.
“Of course it is.” But the girl’s solemnity was a little too much.
“My dear!” A gust of ribald laughter overwhelmed her. “Hasn’t it ever struck you that the so-called aristocracy racket is all a bluff?”
“Surely, it can’t be.” The tone was genuine dismay.
“Every word of it, my dear. There’s only one thing behind it and that’s money. If Wrexham ever sticks a coronet on the head of my Milly and robes her in ermine she’ll be the equal of any in the land, just as old Bill Brown who was in the last birthday honors is as good a peer as the best of ’em now that his soap business has brought him into Park Lane. I knew Bill when he hadn’t a bob. It’s just a matter of L.S.D. As for the frills, they are all my eye and Elizabeth Martin. When my Milly gets among them, it won’t take her a week to learn all their tricks. They are just so many performing dogs.”