“Oh, of course, my dear, I mean Katie's telling us of her cousin's being in London, and sending us his address—” and then she paused.
“Why, mamma?”
“Your papa will have to make up his mind whether he will ask him to the house. Katie would surely never have told him that she has written.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Brown were so very kind. It would seem so strange, so ungrateful, not to ask him.”
“I am afraid he is not the sort of young man—in short, I must speak to your papa.”
Mrs. Porter looked hard at her daughter, who was still busied with the tea-things. She had risen, bonnet in hand, to leave the room; but now changed her mind, and, crossing to her daughter, put her arm round her neck. Mary looked up steadily into her eyes, then blushed slightly, and said quietly,
“No, mamma; indeed, it is not as you think.”
Her mother stooped and kissed her, and left the room, telling her to get dressed, as the carriage would be round in a few minutes.
Her trials for the day were not over. She could see by their manner at dinner that her father and mother had been talking about her. Her father took her to a ball in the evening, where they met St. Cloud, who fastened himself to them. She was dancing a quadrille, and her father stood near her, talking confidentially to St. Cloud. In the intervals of the dance, scraps of their conversation reached her.
“You knew him, then, at Oxford?”