“I see it en’t no good my taking the poor man’s part, sir. You have conceived a spite against him.”
“You do me too much honour, madam. I’ll refer the question to the party it concerns most deeply. Here, miss, your mamma is pressing me to marry you to Mr Menotti. Will you have him?”
“No, sir, I thank you,” said I, with a curtsey.
“Then that settles the matter. My girl will never find me forcing her inclination when it jumps with my own,” and Mr Freyne laughed as he patted my neck. The laugh seemed to displease my stepmother.
“Perhaps you en’t aware of it, sir,” she said, “but you’ll be charmed to know you are the laughing-stock of Calcutta for your usage of Miss there. They say she turns you round her little finger.”
“She could not turn me round a prettier nor a smaller one, madam.”
“Oh, pray spare me these endearments, sir, which befit your age as little as they do your relation to Miss. You won’t listen to me now, but perhaps some day you’ll think of what I have said. Why don’t the girl get married all this time? The gentlemen come crowding to you, and you give ’em their congé one by one, and Miss Saucy-face sits in the corner and simpers. She’ll disgrace you one of these days running off with some blackfellow or other.”
“Pray, madam, remember you’re speaking of my daughter.”
“Am I likely to forget it, sir? Mr Freyne is so nice about his daughter that no one may use a free word in speaking of her, but his wedded wife might look far enough for his assistance if she desired it.”
“My sword is at your service, madam—whether to vindicate your honour or my own.” I had never heard my papa speak with so terrible a voice, and he stood before Mrs Freyne’s couch and looked down at her. She laughed lightly—but was it my fancy that it was also consciously?—as she rose and swept away.