"Good Heavens!" cried the Earl, "what extraordinary language is this! And pray why, sir?"
Harley.—"I can't say—there is no why in these cases. But, my dear father, you are not keeping faith with me."
Lord Lansmere.—"How?"
Harley.—"You, and my Lady here, entreat me to marry—I promise to do my best to obey you; but on one condition—that I choose for myself, and take my time about it. Agreed on both sides. Whereon, off goes your Lordship—actually before noon, at an hour when no lady without a shudder could think of cold blonde and damp orange flowers—off goes your Lordship, I say, and commits poor Lady Mary and your unworthy son to a mutual admiration—which neither of us ever felt. Pardon me, my father—but this is grave. Again let me claim your promise—full choice for myself, and no reference to the Wars of the Roses. What war of the roses like that between Modesty and Love upon the cheek of the virgin!"
Lady Lansmere.—"Full choice for yourself, Harley—so be it. But we, too, named a condition—Did we not, Lansmere?"
The Earl (puzzled).—"Eh—did we? Certainly we did."
Harley.—"What was it?"
Lady Lansmere.—"The son of Lord Lansmere can only marry the daughter of a gentleman."
The Earl.—"Of course—of course."
The blood rushed over Harley's fair face, and then as suddenly left it pale.