“I don’t use them lightly. If I could help it I would put off speaking to you. I would try whether it were not possible to find some way of recommending myself—of making you think a little better of me.”
“If you suppose,” cried Sir Edward, benignly, “that I think less of you because you were not successful about Walter you are quite mistaken, Rochford. You had not time to do anything. He left town almost as soon as you arrived in it. I never expect impossibilities, even when they are promised,” he added, with a nod of his head.
“It is I that am looking for impossibilities, Sir Edward. I can’t think how I could have been so bold. I have been letting myself think that perhaps—that if you could be got to take it into consideration—that, that in short—”
And Mr. Rochford, crimsoning, growing pale, changing from one foot to another, looking all embarrassment and awkwardness, came to a dead stop and could find nothing more to say.
“What is it? You seem to have great difficulty in getting it out. What have I in my power that is so important, and that you are so shy about?”
“I am shy, that is just the word. You will think me—I don’t know what you will think me—”
“Get it out, man. I can’t tell till I know.”
“Sir Edward,” said Rochford, more and more embarrassed, “your daughter—”
“Oh, my daughter! Is that how it is?” It is not to be supposed that a day had elapsed after Walter’s return and the relief of mind that followed it without some communication passing between Lady Penton and her husband on the second of the subjects that had excited her so deeply.
“Sir Edward,” said the young man, “Miss Penton’s family and position are of course superior to mine. It all depends on the way these matters are looked upon. Some people would consider this an insuperable obstacle. Some do not attach much importance to it. Ideas have changed so much on this subject. My grandfather, as perhaps you are aware, married a Miss Davenport of Doncaster. But I don’t know how you may look on that sort of thing.”