“You don’t mean to say that you are going to let that fellow marry Gussy’?” said Harry, coming to a sudden pause.
“Harry, if this is such a connection as I hope, it will smooth everything,” said Lady Augusta. “My dearest boy, tell me who she is.”
“She is the only woman I will ever marry,” said Harry, doggedly.
And then his poor mother divined, without further words, that the match was not an advantageous one, and that she had another disappointment on her hands.
“Harry, you keep me very anxious. Is she one of Mary’s neighbours? Tell me her name.”
“Yes, she is one of Aunt Mary’s neighbours and chief favourites,” said Harry. “Aunt Mary is by way of patronizing her.” And here he laughed; but the laugh was forced, and had not the frank amusement in it which he intended it to convey.
Lady Augusta’s brow cleared for a moment, then clouded again.
“You do not mean Myra Witherington?” she said, faintly. “Oh! not one of that family, I hope!”
“Myra Witherington!” he cried. “Mother, what do you take me for? It is clear you know nothing about my beautiful Margaret. In her presence, you would no more notice Myra Witherington than a farthing candle in the sun!”
Poor Lady Augusta took courage again. The very name gave her a little courage. It is the commonest of all names where Margaret came from; but not in England, where its rarity gives it a certain distinction.