“Are you going to deny that you have cast a favourable eye upon Miss Gwendolen Durant?”
The renewal of colour upon Lionel’s fair cheek assured the Canon that Mrs. Fitzherbert’s surmise was eminently correct.
“I like her very much, father,” admitted Lionel, after some hesitation, “but I’ve not said anything to her. I have no reason to believe that she cares for me at all.”
“Good heavens, that’s not the way to make love, my boy. Why, when I was your age I never asked if there were reasons why a young woman should care for me. It’s a foolish lover who prates of his own unworthiness. If it’s a fact let the lady find it out for herself after marriage.”
“Would you approve of my asking Miss Durant to marry me?”
“Well, my dear Lionel, I will not conceal from you that I dislike her connection with trade, but still we live in a different world from that of my boyhood. Every one has a finger in some commercial enterprise now-a-days, and after all the Sprattes are well enough born to put up with a trifling mésalliance. I don’t want you to think me cynical, but a hundred and fifty thousand pounds will gild a more tarnished scutcheon than the Durants’.”
“But I’ve not altogether made up my mind,” said Lionel, who had not bargained for being rushed into the affair.
“Well, then, make it up, my boy, for it’s high time you were married. Don’t forget that an old and honoured name depends on you. Your duty is to provide a male child to inherit the title, and I’m assured that the Durants run to boys.”
“I’m not quite certain if I love her enough to marry her, father. I’m trying to make up my mind.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense, Lionel. If you don’t look sharp about it, upon my soul I’ll cut you out and marry her myself.”