‘You need not be annoyed, ma’am,’ he began; ‘you did not approve of my choice.’
‘Happy as I am to see you deterred from such a fatal step, I cannot submit to the indignity to which you—and we all—have been subjected,’ said his mother. ‘That a paid companion should have refused my son is one of those things I find it hard to accept.’
‘She may yet change,’ replied he. ‘I told her I should give her time.’
Lady Fordyce’s prominent eyes were fixed. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you will ask her again? That you will so far degrade yourself as to make another offer?’
He made a sign of assent.
She threw up her hands. ‘What have I done?’ she exclaimed, addressing an imaginary listener—‘what have I done that my own children should turn against me? When have I failed in my duty towards them? Have I ever thought of myself? Have I ever failed to sacrifice myself where their interests were concerned?’
She turned suddenly on Crauford.
‘No, never,’ he murmured.
During her life Lady Fordyce had seldom bestirred herself for anyone, but habit had made everybody in the house perjure themselves at moments like the present. Declamation was one of her trump-cards; besides, her doctor had once hinted that apoplexy was not an impossible event.
‘As a mother, I have surely some right to consideration. I do not say much—I trust I understand these modern times too well for that—but I beg you will spare us further mortification. Are there no young ladies of suitable position that you must set your heart upon this charity-girl of Lady Eliza Lamont’s?’