Many people would not have disregarded such a wish. Strelsa flushed and lifted her purple-gray eyes to meet the little green ones scanning her slyly.
"I am sorry," she said, "but I couldn't discuss such a thing, you see. Don't you see I can't, dear Mrs. Sprowl?"
"Pooh! Rubbish! Anybody can discuss anything," rejoined the old lady with impersonal and boisterous informality. "I'm fond of you. Everybody knows it. I'm fond of Sir Charles. He's a fine figure of a man. You match him in everything, except wealth. It's an ideal marriage——"
"Please don't!—I simply cannot——"
"Ideal," repeated Mrs. Sprowl loudly—"an ideal marriage——"
"But when there is no love——"
"Plenty! Loads of it! He's mad about you—crazy!—--"
"I—meant—on my part——"
"Good God!" shouted the old lady, beating the air with pudgy hands—"isn't it luck enough to have love on one side? What does the present generation want! I tell you it's ideal, perfect. He's a good man as men go, and a devilish handsome——"
"I know—but——"