“Of course!” snapped Valencia.
“There’s no doubt about the marriage?—its legality, I mean?” asked Mr. Fransemmery.
“None!” declared Valencia, as curtly as before, “whatever!”
Mr. Fransemmery remained silent a moment. Then he looked past Valencia, towards Harborough. Harborough, rubbing his chin, stared at the fire. Mr. Fransemmery turned to Valencia.
“And what is the trouble?” he enquired. “As you say, my dear, since the thing is done—why, it is done!”
“The trouble’s this, Mr. Fransemmery,” replied Valencia. “Harry came and told me this an hour ago. He said that he and Poppy Wrenne had been in love with each other ever since she left that boarding-school that her mother sent her to, and lately Mrs. Braxfield had been in the secret, and she had consented, not only to their engagement, but to their marriage in London, when Poppy was staying there three months since. It was when Harry went up to town for a holiday—he was away quite a month. Well, now—now that things are as they are—you both know what I mean—Mrs. Braxfield insists that the time has come for this to be made public; she insists that her daughter shall take her rightful place at—at the funeral tomorrow, as Lady Markenmore, and she has threatened Harry that unless this is done, she will—well, I suppose she’ll make a scene!”
“And—your brother?” asked Mr. Fransemmery. “What does he say?”
“He would rather have postponed it until the funeral is over,” replied Valencia. “Then he was going to announce it, in due form. But Mrs. Braxfield is adamant—he’s seen her twice today, and she won’t budge an inch! She insists that Lady Markenmore should be in her rightful place tomorrow—to be seen and known as Lady Markenmore by everybody.”
Mr. Fransemmery caught his other guest’s eye.
“What do you say, Harborough?” he asked.