“No,” he said, speaking seriously and with something approaching sternness. “But that will and that choice must be guided. They should be guided. Your feelings are natural—God forbid that I should think them otherwise! But you must leave the decision to me.”
She looked at him, aghast. She had heard, but had never believed, that in the upper classes matches were arranged after this fashion. But to have no will and no choice in such a thing as marriage! She must be dreaming.
“You cannot,” he continued, looking at her firmly but not unkindly, “have either the knowledge of the past,” with a slight grimace, as of pain, “or the experience needful to enable you to measure the result of the step you take. You must, therefore, let your seniors decide for you.”
“But I could never—never,” she answered, with a deep blush, “marry a man without—liking him, sir.”
“Marry?” Sir Robert repeated. He stared at her.
She returned the look. “I thought, sir,” she faltered, with a still deeper blush, “that you were talking of that.”
“My dear,” he said, gravely, “I am referring to the subject on which I understood that you requested Miss Sibson to speak to me.”
“My mother?” she whispered, the colour fading quickly from her face.
He paused a moment. Then, “You would oblige me,” he said, slowly and formally, “by calling her Lady Sybil Vermuyden. And not—that.”
“But she is—my mother,” she persisted.