Mercy became absorbed in her work; she stooped close over the embroidery—so close that Horace could not see her face. “Do you know what the present is?” she asked, in lowered tones, speaking absently.
“No. I only know it is waiting for you. Shall I go and get it to-day?”
She neither accepted nor refused the proposal—she went on with her work more industriously than ever.
“There is plenty of time,” Horace persisted. “I can go before dinner.”
Still she took no notice: still she never looked up. “Your mother is very kind to me,” she said, abruptly. “I was afraid, at one time, that she would think me hardly good enough to be your wife.”
Horace laughed indulgently: his self-esteem was more gently flattered than ever.
“Absurd!” he exclaimed. “My darling, you are connected with Lady Janet Roy. Your family is almost as good as ours.”
“Almost?” she repeated. “Only almost?”
The momentary levity of expression vanished from Horace’s face. The family question was far too serious a question to be lightly treated A becoming shadow of solemnity stole over his manner. He looked as if it was Sunday, and he was just stepping into church.
“In OUR family,” he said, “we trace back—by my father, to the Saxons; by my mother, to the Normans. Lady Janet’s family is an old family—on her side only.”