“Yes. Tell me about your niece, Mr. Knowles. Has she lived in England long? Who were her parents?”
I dodged the ticklish subject as best I could, told her that Frances' father was an Englishman, her mother an American, and that most of the young lady's life had been spent in France. I feared more searching questions, but she did not ask them.
“I see,” she said, nodding, and was silent for a moment. Then she changed the subject, returning once more to her beloved Carleton.
“He's a dear boy,” she declared. “I am planning great things for him. Some day he will have the estate here, of course. And I am hoping to get him the seat in Parliament when our party returns to power, as it is sure to do before long. He will marry then; in fact everything is arranged, so far as that goes. Of course there is no actual engagement as yet, but we all understand.”
I had been rather bored, now I was interested.
“Indeed!” said I. “And may I ask who is the fortunate young lady?”
“A daughter of an old friend of ours in Warwickshire—a fine family, one of the oldest in England. She and Carleton have always been so fond of each other. Her parents and I have considered the affair settled for years. The young people will be so happy together.”
Here was news. I offered congratulations.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “It is pleasant to know that his future is provided for. Margaret will make him a good wife. She worships him. If anything should happen to—ah—disturb the arrangement her heart would break, I am sure. Of course nothing will happen. I should not permit it.”
I made some comment, I don't remember what. She rose from the bench.