"I?"
Mrs. Bethune rises in the slow, beautiful fashion that is hers always; she moves towards the window. There is no hurry, no undue haste, to betray the disquietude of her soul.
"You—you, of course," says Lady Rylton peevishly. "I always rely upon you."
"I have no influence!"
"You mean, of course, that you will not use it," says Lady Rylton angrily. "You still think that you will marry him yourself, that perhaps his uncle will die and leave him once more a rich man—the master of The Place, as the old Place's master should be; but that is a distant prospect, Marian."
Mrs. Bethune has swung around, her beautiful figure is drawn up to its most stately height.
"Not another word!" says she imperiously. "What have I to do with your son? Let him marry—let him marry——" She pauses as if choking, but goes on again: "I tell you I have no influence—none! Appeal to Margaret, she may help you!"
"She—no!"
"Hush! here she is. Yes; ask her," says Mrs. Bethune, as if desirous of letting Lady Rylton hear the opinion of the new-comer on this extraordinary subject.