“Oh, you do know a great deal. They want me to marry, and I can not, will not; you know why. But they do so want me to marry.”
“Who do?”
“Papa and Isabel, and Lady Margaret. Oh, it’s dreadful; you do not know what I have gone through these six months.”
“To marry!” said Hilary; “what, to marry in a general way, or is there some one in particular? You talk vaguely.”
“Oh, one man in particular: Mr. Ufford!”
“What, this clergyman?”
“Oh, no, his elder brother, a much older man, a widower, too, with one little girl; think of wanting to make me a step-mother.”
“And do you not like this gentleman?”
“No, not much, pretty well; he is pleasant, and good, and kind. I like him better than his brother here; he is much more open and generous; only if he would have been so obliging as not to fancy himself in love with me, I should have liked him much better.”
“And now, where is he? is he still wanting to marry you?”