“What do you mean?” she cried. “My dear Aubrey, I do not understand you. I thought you were dangling about after your young lady, and that this was the reason why I heard so little of you; and then I was much startled to see that announcement in the papers. But you said she was always delicate. Well, but what on earth is the meaning of this other change?”
“I told you, mother. For some time I was but half accepted, pending Colonel Kingsward’s decision.”
“Oh, yes; one knows what that sort of thing means! And then Colonel Kingsward generously consented—to one of the best matches in England—in your condition of life.”
“I am not a young duke, mother.”
“No, you are not a young duke. I said in your condition of life, and the Kingswards are nothing superior to that, I believe. Well—and then? That was where your last letter left me.”
“I am ashamed not to have written, mother; but it wasn’t pleasant news—and I always hoped to change their mind.”
“Well? I suppose there was some cause for it?” she said, after waiting a long minute or two for his next words.
He got up and walked to the window, which, as has been intimated, was also a door opening and leading out on to the terrace. “May I shut this window?” he said, turning his back on her; and then he added, still keeping that attitude, “it was of course because of that old affair.”
“What old affair?”
“You generally understand at half a word, mother; must I go into the whole nauseous business?”