“Is it worth the trouble?” he said, indifferently. “My dear aunt, before a man takes the pains to work cautiously he must have set his heart on the prize with some fervor.”
“And haven’t you done so, Tom? Why, I thought you were going too far—and too fast. I did not see any doubt, or want of warmth, I assure you. Fervor! well, perhaps fervor is a strong word; that means difficulty to get over, and resistance, and a struggle perhaps. Poor little Lucy! I don’t think there will be much resistance on her part.”
“I am not at all so sure of that,” he said.
“Why, Tom! Poor child! we can’t blame her. She is only seventeen; and you have a way— Ah, my boy, it is not want of experience that will balk you. You have a way of speaking, and a way of looking. And Lucy is as simple as a little dove, there is no concealment about her. She thinks there is nobody like you.”
“Well, perhaps you are right. She thinks there is nobody like me,” said Sir Tom, with something of that softening of vanity which makes a man’s countenance imbecile when he thinks he is admired: “but,” he added, with a little laugh, “Lucy is no more in love with me than— I am with you. Like her, I think there is nobody like you—”
“Oh, Tom— Tom, you are a deceiver! My dear, that is nonsense. There is no tie between her and you. The very first night I saw it. Fancy her sitting up to chatter to you—and chattering, she who is so quiet! Why, she is a great deal more open, more at her ease with you than with me.”
“All so many things against me,” he said; “she is not in love with me, as I tell you, any more than I am with you.”
Lady Randolph was struck with great surprise, and so many things poured into her mind to be said that she was silent, and did not say anything, looking at him with confused impatience, and able to bring out nothing save a “but—but,” of bewilderment. At last she enunciated with difficulty and hesitation, “If this is true, which I can’t believe, do you mind, Tom?”
“Not much,” he said, then laughed, and looked her in the face. “You do not understand me, aunt. I think it quite likely that if it were put before her as a suitable arrangement, Lucy might make up her mind to marry me. She is beginning to get perplexed in her life. She has been on the point of confiding in me two or three times.”
“What?” said Lady Randolph, in great excitement. She could not think of anything but love about which a girl could be confidential, and Bertie Russell, like a Jack-in-the-box, suddenly jumped up in her anxious brain. But Sir Thomas shook his head.