“Well, our way of courting is the best,” said Harry.
“Judging from my own experience it undoubtedly is,” continued Kitty, looking tenderly at him. “The walks we have enjoyed together have taught me what you are, and taught you what I am; and, oh! how fortunate it is that I came back to America this year.”
“Most fortunate for me,” said Harry.
“And for me, too, dear boy. But now, to speak seriously about Mabel; I am in a quandary. What shall I do? Ma will see at a glance that she is a peasant.”
Mrs. Gibbon was highly pleased when her daughter told her of her engagement to Henry Fletcher, Jr.
“Console toi, ma fille,” she said. “S’il n’a pas de titre, l’argent au moins ne lui manque pas.”
But, as Kitty had feared, she was not at all pleased when she heard about Mabel Willey.
“Mais, mon Dieu! C’est une paysanne!” groaned the widow, who was wont to speak French to Kitty, and spoke it well, too—“une paysanne!” Then, sinking down in a rocking-chair, “Mon Dieu!” she sighed, “mon Dieu! quel scandale.”
Here the matter was let drop, for Mrs. Gibbon was too delighted with Kitty’s engagement to remain long out of humor.
Three days later, while the widow was seated on the piazza, fanning away the mosquitoes and wishing with all her heart that she was at Biarritz or Trouville, up rattled a farm-wagon. An old man was driving, his back pretty well bent with years, and beside him sat Mabel.