And then had come Mr. Potts. While Theo did that ardent young man the justice to own that his advances had very likely been made with marriage in mind, he had been infuriated to discover that Mr. Potts apparently felt no compunctions in taking by force those liberties that Theo would not allow himself to pursue even by subtler means. His indignation had been considerably exacerbated by the realization that his own intentions toward Miss Drinkard were very serious indeed.
But what to do? He flattered himself that she would not find his attentions so objectionable as those of the odious Mr. Potts, but if he were to declare himself to her, he would put her in an intolerable position by proposing a match which her mother could never allow, much less approve. On the other hand, if he were to reveal his true identity, she would be obliged to divulge this information to her mother, and that ambitious lady’s demeanor toward him would undergo such a transformation that his position at the mill, both as a worker and as a member of the disgruntled inner circle that congregated in Mrs. Drinkard’s dining room, would very quickly become untenable. Then, too, any such confession must of necessity include an explanation of the circumstances that had led to his present charade, and this, given the late Mr. Drinkard’s weakness for gambling, might provoke feelings of such revulsion in Miss Drinkard’s breast that any affection she might feel for him would be completely overwhelmed.
No, for a number of reasons, his best course of action—indeed, his only course of action—was to remain where he was, and await events.
With a sigh of mingled frustration and regret, he lit the candle on the writing table and held the letter to the flame until it caught, then tossed the burning paper onto the grate and watched as his ticket back to London blackened and turned to ash.
IN THE MEANTIME, DAPHNE was, with some trepidation, preparing to broach a related topic with her mother as they made the final preparations for dinner.
“—And you may bring down your ball gown from the attic, my love,” her mother pronounced as she energetically sliced a freshly baked loaf of bread and spread each slice with butter.
“Oh, Mama!” Daphne cried eagerly. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes, indeed! To be sure, this is only a country party, and most of the guests barely respectable. But to appear shabby-genteel would reflect poorly on Sir Valerian. We must demonstrate to him that you are worthy of moving in the highest circles.”
“Mama,” Daphne began cautiously, “I feel I must warn you that while Sir Valerian might attempt to flirt with me, he has never given me the slightest indication that his gallantries are serious.”
“Of course not, my dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Drinkard, clearly affronted. “He is far too well-bred to do such a thing without speaking to me first. Of course, had your poor father been alive, it would be he to whom Sir Valerian would apply for permission to address you, but as things now stand—”
“Mama!” Daphne interrupted, shock (and yes, perhaps dismay) making her forget her manners, “Do you mean that Sir Valerian has spoken to you?”
“No,” her mother confessed with a sigh of regret. “Still, we must not despair. I’m sure Sir Valerian must be a very busy man right now. It may not be until later, after the elections, that he has time to think of such things, and to realize the value of having a wife at his side.”
Privately, Daphne thought it would be much longer than that before the aspiring M. P. thought of her in that rôle. Aloud, she merely said, “Mama, I think it would be a mistake to pin all our hopes on Sir Valerian, or to look too high for a husband for me, given our present circumstances. Indeed, there have been times of late when I have thought marriage to—to a man who is good and kind, even if he is not wealthy, might be preferable to the prospect of spinsterhood.”
“You have, have you?” Mrs. Drinkard’s eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “And are you thinking of any ‘good and kind’ man in particular?”
“N-no,” Daphne demurred with perhaps more discretion than honesty.
“Good,” declared her mother, “for I must urge you to put any such thought out of your head. Even if Sir Valerian does not come up to scratch—and I have not yet given up hope in that quarter, not by a long chalk!—you must not forget what is due your name, my dear. Why, before your poor Papa’s death, you might have looked as high as—but never mind that. Matters are not so dire that you must reconcile yourself to marriage with just anyone, for you will have this house after I am gone, and well, there is never a shortage of people in need of lodging.”
“And what of—of companionship, Mama?”
“My dear, surely you are aware that companionship is never a problem in a house filled with boarders!”
“That’s not the kind of companionship I meant.” Daphne felt her face grow warm, and knew she was blushing. “I was talking about love.”
“I see,” her mother said darkly, giving her an appraising look. “Don’t go filling your head with
