He was obliged to be civil, very civil. Nobody is rude to the Lady Marys
of life; and besides, she was old enough to have an additional right to
every courtesy. But while he sat over the novel, and tried with
unnecessary vehemence to make her see what very bad law it was, and
glanced from her smiling attention to the innocent sweetness of the girl
beside her, who was her loving attendant, the good man's heart was sore.
He said many hard things of her in his own mind as he went away.

"She will die," he said bitterly. "She will go off in a moment when
nobody is looking for it, and that poor child will be left destitute."

It was all he could do not to go back and take her by her fragile old
shoulders and force her to sign and seal at once. But then he knew very
well that as soon as he found himself in her presence, he would of
necessity be obliged to subdue his impatience, and be once more civil,
very civil, and try to suggest and insinuate the duty which he dared not
force upon her. And it was very clear that till she pleased she would
take no hint. He supposed it must be that strange reluctance to part with
their power which is said to be common to old people, or else that horror
of death, and determination to keep it at arm's length, which is also
common. Thus he did as spectators are so apt to do, he forced a meaning
and motive into what had no motive at all, and imagined Lady Mary, the
kindest of women, to be of purpose and intention risking the future of
the girl whom she had brought up, and whom she loved,--not with passion,
indeed, or anxiety, but with tender benevolence; a theory which was as
false as anything could be.

That evening in her room, Lady Mary, in a very cheerful mood, sat
by a little bright unnecessary fire, with her writing-book before her,