Janet Godolphin’s grave eyes were fixed on vacancy, and her thin lips drawn in to pressure. She did not answer.
“Thomas heartily approves,” he continued. “I have been with him.”
“Thomas must do as he likes,” said Janet. “But, unless you have unwittingly misunderstood him, George, you are telling me a deliberate falsehood. He will never approve of your marrying Charlotte Pain.”
“Charlotte Pain!” repeated George, with an air of as much surprise as if it were genuine, “who was talking about Charlotte Pain? What put her into your head?”
Janet’s face flushed. “Were you not talking of Charlotte Pain?”
“Not I,” said George. “In spite of the compliments you pay my truthfulness, Janet, I meant what I said to you yesterday—that I did not intend to make her my wife. I am speaking of Maria Hastings.”
“Eh, lad, but that’s good news!”
George burst into a laugh. “What green geese you must all have been, Janet! Had you used your eyes, you might have detected this long time past that my choice was fixed on Maria. But the Rector doubts whether you will approve. He will not promise her to me until he has your sanction.”
“I’ll put my shawl on and go down at once to the Rectory, and tell him that we all love Maria,” said Janet, more impulsively than was common with her: but in truth she had been relieved from a great fear. There was something about Charlotte Pain that frightened sedate Janet. Compared with her, Maria Hastings appeared everything that was desirable as a wife for George. Her want of fortune, her want of position—which was certainly not equal to that of the Godolphins—were lost sight of.
“I could manage to take some broth, Janet,” cried George, as she was leaving the room. “I have had nothing since breakfast.”