Sir James had a few hurried words in private with Marsham, and then took his leave. As he and Lady Lucy shook hands, he gave her a penetrating look.
"Try and think of the girl!" he said, in a low voice; "the girl--in her first youth."
"I think of my son," was the unmoved reply. "Good-bye, Sir James. I feel that we are adversaries, and I wish it were not so."
Sir James walked away, possessed by a savage desire to do some damage to the cathedral in pith, as he passed it on his way to the door; or to shake his fist in the faces of Wilberforce and Lord Shaftesbury, whose portraits adorned the staircase. The type of Catholic woman which he most admired rose in his mind; compassionate, tender, infinitely soft and loving--like the saints; save where "the faith" was concerned--like the saints, again. This Protestant rigidity and self-sufficiency were the deuce!
But he would go down to Beechcote, and he and Oliver between them would see that child through.
Meanwhile, Ferrier and Marsham were in anxious conclave. Ferrier counselled delay. "Let the thing sleep a little. Don't announce the engagement. You and Miss Mallory will, of course, understand each other. You will correspond. But don't hurry it. So much consideration, at least, is due to your mother's strong feeling."
Marsham assented, but despondently.
"You know my mother; time will make no difference."
"I'm not so sure--I'm not so sure," said Ferrier, cheerfully. "Did your mother say anything about--finances?"