“No, unmarried—in fact an old maid,” he replied.
“Oh! yes, quite so. Then she’s Miss Maubray?” said the lady.
“No, Miss Perfect,” said he.
“Miss Perfect, maternal aunt, it must be,” and Mrs. Kincton Knox paused, a little perplexed, for she did not recollect that name in that interesting page in the Peerage, which she had looked into more than once. She concluded, however, it must be so, and said, slowly, “I see—I see.”
“And what—you’ll do me the justice to believe, it aint curiosity but a higher motive that actuates me—what is the ground of this unhappy dispute?”
“She has set her heart on my going into the Church,” said William sadly, “and I’m not fit for it.”
“Certainly,” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox, “nothing, begging the old lady’s pardon, could be more absurd—you’re not fit of course, nor is it fit for you—there is no fitness whatever. There’s the Very Rev. the Earl of Epsom, and the Rev. Sir James St. Leger, and many others I could name. Can anything be more ridiculous? They both have their estates and position to look after; and their ordination vow pledges them to give their entire thoughts to their holy calling. I and Mr. Kincton Knox have had many arguments upon the subject; as you see, I’m quite with you. Mr.—Mr. Herbert, you must allow me still to call you by that name—that dear old name. I was going to say⸺”
William could only acquiesce—a little puzzled at her general exuberance; she seemed, in fact, quite tipsy with good nature. How little one can judge of character at first sight!
“And, of course, it is not for me to say—but your reserve about your name—I suppose that is at an end. Since the melancholy termination of your hopes and fears—I mean there can hardly be—now that you apprise me of your domestic loss.”
“It was entirely in deference to my aunt’s prejudices, that Doctor Sprague, in fact,” began William.