"But she may refuse him," says Margaret gently; "you should think of
that."

"She--she refuse? You are mad!" says Lady Rylton. "A girl--a girl
called _Bolton."_

"It is certainly an ugly name," says Margaret in a conciliatory way.

"And yet you blame me because I desire to give her Rylton instead, a
name as old as England itself. I tell you, Margaret," with a little
delicate burst of passion, "that it goes to my very soul to accept
this girl as a daughter. She--she is _hateful_ to me, not only
because of her birth, but in every way. She is antagonistic to me.
She--would you believe it?--she has had the audacity to argue with
me about little things, as if she--_she,"_ imperiously, "should have
an opinion when I was present."

"My dear Tessie, we all have opinions, and you know you said
yourself that at seventeen nowadays one is no longer a child."

"I wish, Margaret, you would cure yourself of that detestable habit
of repeating one's self _to_ one's self," says Lady Rylton
resentfully. "There," sinking back in her chair, and saturating her
handkerchief with some delicate essence from a little Louis Quatorze
bottle beside her, "it isn't worth so much worry. But to say that
she would refuse Maurice----"

"Why should she not? She looks to me like a girl who would not care
to risk all her future life for mere position. I mean," says