"Marian? Certainly not!" says Sir Maurice, telling his lie
beautifully. "Marian thinks her beneath notion. So would you,
if----" He pauses. "If she hadn't a penny you wouldn't know her," he
says presently; "and you admit she has no manners, yet you ask me to
marry her. Now, if I did marry her, what should I do with her?"

"Educate her! Control her! Says his mother, a little viciously.

"I confess I am not equal to the occasion. I could not manage a
baby. The situation doesn't suit me."

"Maurice--it _must!"_ Lady Rylton rises, and, standing near him with
her hand on the table, looks at him with a pale face. "You find
fault with her; so do I, and frankly admit she is the last woman in
the world I should have chosen for you if I could help it, but she
is one of the richest girls in England. And after all, though I
detest the very sound of it, Trade is now our master. You object to
the girl's youth; that, however, is in her favour. You can mould her
to your own designs, and"--she casts a bitter glance at him that
will not be suppressed--"all women cannot be widows. Then, as for
her being so little a creature, she is surely quite as tall as I am,
and your father--you know, Maurice, how devoted he was to me."

"Oh yes, poor old Dad!" says Maurice, with a movement that might
mean pain. He seldom speaks of his father--_never_ to his mother. He
had certainly loved his father. He moves quickly to the further end
of the room.

"You will think of this girl, Maurice?"