“Not rich?” said Mr. Penrose. “No, I suppose not. A rich fellow would not have been such a fool as to entangle himself with Winnie, who has only her pretty face; but he has something, of course. The first thing to ascertain is, what they will have to live on, and what he can settle upon her. I suppose you have not let it go so far without having a kind of idea on these points?”
“Oh, yes,” said Aunt Agatha, with a very poor pretence at composure; “oh, yes, Mr. Penrose, that is all quite right. He has very nice expectations. I have always heard that Mrs. Percival had a charming little property; and Sir Edward is his godfather, and very fond of him. You will see it will come all right about that.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Penrose, who was nursing one of his legs—a colossal member, nearly as big as his hostess—in a meditative way, “I hope it will when I come to look into it. But we must have something more than expectations. What has he of his own?—and what do his mother and Sir Edward mean to do for him? We must have it in pounds, shillings, and pence, or he shan’t have Winnie. It is best that he should make up his mind about that.”
Aunt Agatha drew a frightened, panting breath; but she did not say anything. She had known what she would have to brave, and she was aware that Winnie would not brave it, and that to prevent a breach with her darling’s only rich relation, it was necessary and expedient as long as she was alone to have it all out.
“Let me see,” said Mr. Penrose, “you told me what he was in your letter—Captain, ain’t he? As for his pay, that don’t count. Let us go systematically to work if we are to do any good. I know ladies are very vague about business matters, but still you must know something. What sort of a fellow is he, and what has he got of his own?”
“Oh, he is very nice,” cried Aunt Agatha, consoled to find a question she could answer; “very, very nice. I do think you will like him very much; such a fine young fellow, and with what you gentlemen call no nonsense about him,” said the anxious woman; “and with excellent connexions,” she added, faltering again, for her enthusiasm awoke no answer in Mr. Penrose’s face.
“My dear Miss Agatha,” he said in his offensive way—and he always called her Miss Agatha, which was very trying to her feelings—“you need not take the trouble to assure me that a handsome young fellow who pays her a little attention, is always very nice to a lady. I was not asking whether he was nice; I was asking what were his means—which is a very much more important part of the subject, though you may not think so,” Mr. Penrose added. “A charming little house like this, for instance, where you can have everything within yourself, and can live on honey and dew I suppose, may be kept on nothing—though you and I, to be sure, know a little different——”
“Mr. Penrose,” said Aunt Agatha, trembling with indignation, “if you mean that the dinner was not particular enough——”
“It was a charming little dinner,” said Mr. Penrose, “just what it ought to have been. Nothing could have been nicer than that white soup; and I think I am a judge. I was speaking of something to live on; a pretty house like this, I was saying, is not an analogous case. You have everything within yourself—eggs, and vegetables, and fruit, and your butter and milk so cheap. I wish we could get it like that in Liverpool; and—pardon me—no increase of family likely, you know.”
“My niece Mary and her three children have come to the Cottage since you were last here, Mr. Penrose,” said Aunt Agatha, with a blush of shame and displeasure. “It was the only house of all her relations that she could come to with any comfort, poor dear—perhaps you don’t call that an increase of family; and as for the milk and butter——”