“So he is the poor devil I was pitying in anticipation,” thought Ralph, “On the whole I think the sentiment is uncalled-for. His back is broad enough, and his susceptibilities not too acute. Besides which, he is the kind of man that must be ruled, and perhaps when he is incorporated as a part of her precious self, Florence may not treat him badly. She will have no more need for plotting and planning on pecuniary grounds, anyhow.”
Mr. Chepstow was all beaming with the effulgence of prosperity and good-humour, delighted to see Sir Ralph again, hoped he had enjoyed his visit to England, etc., etc.
Ralph felt rather at a loss how to demean himself. The thing was so very palpable, he wondered if he was expected to congratulate the happy pair forthwith. But as there had been no announcement made to him, he decided that it was better to be on the safe side, and risk no premature good wishes.
It was a very tiresome evening. Mr. Chepstow bored him inexpressibly; the more so, that being his mother’s guest, he felt bound to be civil to the good-natured millionaire. After dinner he was doomed to a very exhausting tête-à-tête, in the course of which the stout widower unbosomed himself, described in glowing terms his admiration for Miss Vyse, and ended by expressing his hopes that Sir Ralph would look favourably on the proposed alliance.
“I am very happy to hear of it, I assure you, Mr. Chepstow,” replied Ralph. “But you are mistaken in thinking my approval has anything to say to the matter. Miss Vyse is very distantly related to me, and though she has been staying with my mother for some time, I am very slightly acquainted with her. She is, I believe, quite her own mistress. It think her fortunate in the prospect of a kind husband; and you, on your side, I need not tell you, will have an exceedingly handsome wife. May I ask when the—what do you call it?—happy event, isn’t that the proper expression, is to take place?”
Mr. Chepstow’s rosy completion visibly deepened in hue.
“We have not exactly fixed. In fact, my dear Sir Ralph, Miss Vyse is a young lady of such exceedingly delicate feeling—I had wished her to name an early day, but she rather objects to our marriage taking place till the anniversary of the late Mrs. Chepstow’s death has passed.
“Oh indeed!” said the younger man; “then that anniversary falls about this season, I suppose. Ah well, a few weeks’ delay will give you time to know each other better! I forget by-the-bye how many years you have been a widower.”
Mr. Chepstow looked still more uncomfortable.
“My late wife, Mrs. Chepstow,” he said, “died in June. I thought I mentioned that Miss Vyse wished to postpone matters till after the anniversary was passed.”