“You are so incredulous; other mothers would not be nearly so difficult to convince,” said Mab. “That’s why I wanted you to see his high mightiness’s devotion with your own eyes; not that it’s of any consequence in itself. Imogen will do far better than that; it’s only to convince you of her fascination.”
Mrs Wentworth gave a gentle little sigh.
“I suppose I must not hope to keep her very long,” she said, “hard as it will be to part with her. But if it is for her happiness, that is all I think about. I would not ask or expect any extraordinarily brilliant marriage for her. I should be quite content to give her to some really good man, whom I could trust her to.”
“Oh yes, of course, of course,” said Miss Forsyth, with an undertone of slightly contemptuous incredulity, which Mrs Wentworth was too simple to perceive. “All the same, you must not be too unworldly—too easily pleased, you know. It is not every day one sees a girl like Imogen, so well brought up too.”
“Dear Mabella, you are too partial,” Mrs Wentworth repeated.
“It is true that when I take to any one I can see no fault in them,” said Miss Forsyth. “I think I may say of myself that I am a very thorough-going friend—and,” she added to herself, “a very thorough-going enemy.”
Half an hour or so later Imogen was up-stairs.
“Mamma,” she said, as she glanced in at her mother, “I’m going out for a few minutes’ blow before luncheon. I won’t be long.”
“No, don’t be late, darling,” her mother replied; “the Squire does like people to be punctual. It’s one of the few things he is strict about. But come in for half a second, my pet. I have not seen you all the morning. How bright and well you are looking!”
Imogen stooped to kiss her mother.