“It was very kind of Mrs. Baxter to call,” said Marion, with a simple dignity that was not lost on her hearer. “And you, I know, Mr. Baxter, have been very kind to Geoffrey. When we came here, of course, it was with no idea of living in any but the most retired way. I hardly, indeed, expected to make any acquaintances at all.”
“An expectation which, for the sake of Millington, I certainly trust may not be fulfilled,” replied Mr. Baxter gallantly.
Marion smiled, and accepted the good-natured little compliment with her usual unaffectedness.
“You have been accustomed to a country life, I believe?” continued the host.
“No,” replied she. “Till the last two years I lived principally in London.”
“Indeed!” remarked the gentleman, and forthwith discarded the poor-country-clergy-man’s-daughter hypothesis. Sophia had been at fault somehow, he began to feel sure. He rather enjoyed the idea of reminding her of her “nice enough young person.” But in the first place he must make sure of his own ground.
“Your father, I believe, ma’am, was in the church?” he enquired, gingerly.
“Oh no,” she replied, good-naturedly still, though beginning to think that all this cross-questioning must surely be another peculiarity of Millington manners. “My father was not a clergyman. At one time of his life I believe it was proposed he should go into the church, as one of his uncle’s livings was vacant; but he did not like the idea, and never entered any profession, unless you call politics such.”
“Very hard work and very poor pay, any way,” replied Mr. Baxter, rubbing his hands in a self-gratulatory manner. “I thank my stars I had never anything to say to them. Then your late father, ma’am, was, I suppose, a Hem P.?”
“Yes,” said Marion, simply, “for ——. My father’s name was Vere—Hartford Vere.”