going straight to the croquet lawn.
“Fact, I assure you,” continued Sir Grantley. “It is only quite lately that I have seen any one whom I should like to make Lady Wilters; and now – ”
“You are hopelessly in love,” said her ladyship; showing him her hundred guinea set of teeth – patent mineral, and of pearly whiteness, her best set – down to the false gums. “Oh, you young people in the days of your romance. It is too delightful in spite of its regrets for us who are in the sere and yellow leaf.”
Her ladyship, by the way, was very little older than Sir Grantley, and art had made her look the younger of the two, especially as, in spite of the allusions to the yellow leaf, her ladyship’s plump skin was powdered into a state of peach bloom.
“Thanks, much,” said Sir Grantley, wincing a little from tight boots, and greeting with delight their approach to a garden seat. “Shall we sit down?”
“Oh, by all means,” cried her ladyship; and they took their places under the lilac which bloomed profusely over their heads. “And now,” exclaimed Lady Barmouth, with sparkling eyes and another sweet smile to show her hundred guinea teeth, while the plump face was covered with innocent dimples, “tell me, who is the dear girl?”
“Yas,” said Sir Grantley, clearing his throat, and feeling decidedly better, “yas.”
He paused, and wiped his heated brow with a scented handkerchief.
“Now this is too bad,” said her ladyship, playfully. “You are teasing me.”
“No, ’pon honour, no,” said Sir Grantley. “Fact is, don’t you know, I feel a kind of nervous shrinking.”
“Ah, you young men, you young men,” said her ladyship, shaking her head. “But come: tell me. Do I know her?”
“Oh, yas,” said Sir Grantley.
“To be sure,” cried her ladyship, clapping her hands together. “It’s Lady Mary Mahon. There, I’ve found you out.”
“No,” said Sir Grantley. “Guess again,” and this time he secured the eye-glass with a good ring of circles round it, which did not add to his personal appearance.
“Not Lady Mary,” mused her ladyship. “Well, it can’t be the wealthy Miss Parminter?”
“No,” said Sir Grantley, calmly; “oh, dear, no.”
“Why, of course not; I know, it’s the Honourable Grace Leasome.”
“N-no,” said Sir Grantley, with the most gentlemanly insouciance. “Try again.”
“I give it up,” said her ladyship, smiling.
“Now, Maude, it’s your turn,” was heard faintly from the croquet lawn.
“Yas,” said Sir Grantley, bowing slightly. “That is the lady. My dear Lady Barmouth, will you allow me humbly and respectfully, don’t you know, to propose for your charming daughter’s hand?”
Lady Barmouth sank back in her seat as if struck with horror.
“Anything the matter?” said Sir Grantley, looking puzzled.
“Did – did I understand you aright, Sir Grantley?” faltered her ladyship.
“Aright? Oh, yas. Sorry to be so sudden and upset you, but thought you expected it, don’t you know.”
“My dear Sir Grantley; my dear young friend,” exclaimed her ladyship, laying her hand in a sympathising fashion upon his arm. “This is too painful.”
“Well, suppose it is,” said Sir Grantley, calmly. “Just lost one daughter too – charming girl, Diana – but it must come, Lady Barmouth. I’ve been a bit free and got rid of some money, but there’s about nine thou a year left, and then I shall have the Mellish estates by and by! – another three thou – might settle that on her, don’t you know.”
“Oh, this is dreadful,” panted her ladyship. “My dear young friend, I should have been too happy to give my consent, but dear Maude is as good as engaged to Mr Melton.”
“The doose she is,” said Sir Grantley, dropping his glass and looking blankly at his companion.
“Oh, yes,” exclaimed her ladyship, applying her scent bottle to her delicate nostrils. “I thought you must have seen it.”
“Humph! doosid provoking, don’t you know,” said Sir Grantley, calmly. “Made up my mind at last, and now too late.”
“I am so – so – sorry,” sighed her ladyship.
“Can’t be helped. I did mean to propose the week before last, but had to see my doctor. Melton, eh? Doosid poor, isn’t he?”
“Oh, really, Sir Grantley, I know nothing about Mr Melton’s prospects, but he is a Mowbray Melton, and a wealthy cousin is childless, and not likely to many.”
“What, Dick Mowbray? Married last week.”
“Mr Melton’s cousin?”
“To be sure he did, Lady Barmouth; and besides, Charley Melton is one of the younger branch. Poor as Job.”
He made as if to rise, but her ladyship laid her hand upon his arm.
“Stop a moment,” she exclaimed. “This is a serious matter, Sir Grantley, and it must be cleared up.”
“Don’t say a word about it, please,” he replied, with some trepidation.
“I shall not say a word,” replied her ladyship; “but you are under a mistake, Sir Grantley. Mr Melton has a handsome private income.”
“Where from?” replied the baronet. “His father has not a rap.”
“Then he has magnificent expectations.”
“Did he tell you this?” said Sir Grantley, screwing his glass very tightly into his eye.
“N-no,” said her ladyship. “There, I will be frank with you, Sir Grantley. You are a gentleman, and I can trust you.”
“I hope so,” he replied, stiffly.
“The fact is,” said her ladyship, “seeing that there was a growing intimacy between my daughter and Mr Melton, who is the son of an old Eton schoolfellow of Lord Barmouth, I made some inquiries.”
“Yas?” said Sir Grantley.
“And I understood Lord Barmouth to say that he would be a most eligible parti for our dearest child.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Sir Grantley, carefully examining the sit of one leg of his trousers.
Lady Barmouth stared at the speaker, and then shut her scent bottle with a loud snap.
“If she has deceived me – tricked me over this,” thought her ladyship, “I will never forgive her.”
“But has Mr Melton professed this to you?” said Sir Grantley, staring at the change which had come over his proposed
