As they sat at breakfast on the following morning with the windows wide open to the orchard, he began upon the subject.
“Isoline, I feel that I ought to tell you a few things you may not know. If Mr. Fenton gives his consent, and I consequently give mine, I suppose you and Harry will expect to be married before very long. You have always had most things that you want, being an only child; do you think you will be quite happy with less? You may think perhaps that Mr. Fenton is a rich man.”
“I am not accepting Harry for his money,” observed Isoline, with dignity.
“That would be rather difficult, my dear, seeing that he has not got any,” said the Vicar, with some dryness.
She opened her eyes. “I hardly understand. What should I have to do without?”
“Well, I fancy you spend a good deal upon your dresses for a young girl. Not that I blame you, for you always look very nice, and you have seventy pounds a year of your own to be pretty with. Of course, when you are here you are my guest, and you are no expense, for what does for me does for us both. I think your aunt in Hereford finds the same—and rightly.”
She nodded.
“It would be hard indeed if you had not a home while we are so well able to afford you one,” continued the Vicar, who had denied himself a much-needed carpet for his study in order to add a few luxuries to her bedroom.
“You are both most kind to me.”
“But, my dear, it is only right. All the same I cannot help fearing that you may miss it. You will not have so many new gowns and smart hats.”