“I shall go and tell them what to say,” said Harry valiantly.
“I do not think that your mother will be glad,” said she, smiling faintly.
She hardly knew whether this idea was agreeable to her or not. There was a lurking antipathy in her to Lady Harriet, though she had received nothing but civility at her hands; the strangely-different point of view in small things which Harry’s mother represented had put her out. It had been uncomfortable, and she had not forgotten it. In her mind the only recognized difference between well-regulated people lay in their social positions. She rather resented the idea of a titled mother-in-law whose simple behaviour suggested an unconsciousness of her advantage.
Her imagination flew on to her wedding. It should not take place at Crishowell, if she could help it. She thought of Hereford Cathedral, and the string of carriages and family chariots waiting outside the close for the company before whom she would be playing the leading part. She pictured herself in white satin and lace being conducted up the aisle, and standing with the eldest son of a county magnate before the Bishop—for no doubt Mr. Fenton would wish the Bishop to marry his son; and finally, being led out by her husband to a carriage with grey horses. She would have the wedding-favours an exact facsimile of some she had once seen, bouquets of orange-blossom which had unexpectedly put forth silver leaves, and which reposed on white satin bows with silver fringe. She was quite certain Lady Harriet had never looked so well as she would on that supreme occasion. There was only one dark blot in all her eminently satisfactory day-dream, and that was the fact that Llewellyn would probably be best man. He was neither creditable nor conciliatory.
She awoke from her reverie to find Harry’s eyes fixed upon her with such passionate love and admiration that she was rather startled. So far she had considered him more as an adjunct than as any one possessing a future of his own, and for a single moment the importance of what she had done struck her.
“I wonder how I shall like you,” she remarked suddenly, and without a touch of the flippancy such words might suggest. It was probably the one original thing she had said in her life.
Harry looked as if he had been slapped.
“Isoline! What do you mean?” he cried. “You do not want to draw back?”
“Oh no,” said the girl quickly, “I only wondered if we should ever quarrel.”
“Never,” he replied fervently; “I could never be angry with you, I am sure.”