Mrs. Pomfret looked wise.
“He's a most attractive man, with the best prospects. It would be a splendid match for you, Victoria.”
“Mrs. Pomfret,” replied Victoria, wavering between amusement and a desire to be serious, “I haven't the slightest intention of making what you call a 'match.'” And there was in her words a ring of truth not to be mistaken.
Mrs. Pomfret kissed her.
“One never can tell what may happen,” she said. “Think of him, Victoria. And your dear mother—perhaps you will know some day what the responsibility is of seeing a daughter well placed in life.”
Victoria coloured, and withdrew her hand.
“I fear that time is a long way off, Mrs. Pomfret,” she replied.
“I think so much of Victoria,” Mrs. Pomfret declared a moment later to her guest; “she's like my own daughter. But at times she's so hopelessly unconventional. Why, I believe Rangely's actually going home with her.”
“He asked her to drop him at the Inn,” said Mrs. Fronde. “He's head over heels in love already.”
“It would be such a relief to dear Rose,” sighed Mrs. Pomfret.