“Whose marriage? Speak, Prudence!—in a word, whose?”
“Why, mistress’s marriage, to be sure. Whose else in the world—”
“Mistress’s mar—! What mistress?”
“Mistress Georgiana Foxwell, in course: I don’t own to no other mistress, I’m sure.” The maid drew back from Everell, wondering if the loss of his sweetheart had affected his wits.
“Mistress Georgiana! Are you mad, Prudence? What do you mean?”
“Mad, sir? Not me! I scorn the word. ’Tis my betters I takes to be mad, to go and make a match of it with a gentleman she’s scarce set eyes on, be he ever so rich.”
“What gentleman do you speak of? Truly I think you are mad.”
“I’m a-speaking of Squire Thornby, sir, who but he? Sure then, haven’t they told your Honour?”
“Squire Thornby?” repeated Everell, with but vague recollection of the little he had heard of that person. “A neighbour of Mr. Foxwell’s, isn’t he?”
“Yes, with a large estate, I’ve heard say. ’Tis all I know of him, barring they’ve arranged he shall marry my mistress; though that’s quite enough, heavens knows, and you could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard as much.”