“I—I really can scarcely say,” he replied. “He said a good deal—something about India in the first place.”
“Ah, yes,” said Lady Emma, “he may have to go out for a few months, perhaps, before he can arrange things for settling down.”
“And as to his mother’s approval,” continued Mr Morion, not sorry to turn the tables, “I scarcely understand you. How could there be any possible question of her disapproval? One of my daughters? And a Morion? Where were the Littlewoods, I should like to know, in the days when the Morions owned half a county and more in these parts? Besides, it is not the first alliance between the two houses.”
“True,” said Lady Emma dryly. “But not only was Conrad Littlewood the elder son—practically free to please himself—but his Miss Morion, as is often the case with the choice of a rich man, had a large private fortune of her own.”
To this Mr Morion found no reply. He was not going to allow that there could be any possible question as to one of his daughter’s eligibility.
And if Lady Emma’s misgivings were not dispersed, there was too much latent womanly sympathy about her for her to express them so as to cloud the sunshine of Betty’s first happiness. The sight of her radiant face, half-an-hour or so later, when Horace had at last torn himself away, and she crept into the drawing-room, her sisters having had the discretion to betake themselves to their own quarters, appealed to the deepest of her maternal feelings.
“My darling child,” she said. “I am so happy for you, and I think I have good reason to be so. I feel sure we may trust him.”
“Dearest mamma,” was all Betty’s reply. Later in the evening she confided to Frances that it all seemed too happy.
“In story-books,” she said, “and it is only from them that I know about anything like this, things never go so well, there are always lots of troubles, and uncertainties, and difficulties.”
“But there is no rule without exception, you know,” said Frances, smiling at the sweet little face. “Let us hope that your case is in this way to prove the rule.”