“I do not see why we should have the mortification of a spectator,” said Lucy, who already, having been engaged three-quarters of an hour, felt deeply disinclined to reveal the weak points of her own family to the inspection of the Wentworths. “All that there is to explain can be done very simply. Thank you, I will not sit down. Up to this time we may be allowed to imagine ourselves in our own—in our father’s house. What we have to say is simple enough.”
“But pardon me, my dear Miss Wodehouse—” said Jack Wentworth.
“My sister is Miss Wodehouse,” said Lucy. “What there is to settle had better be arranged with our—our brother. If he will tell us precisely when he wishes us to go away, we shall be ready. Mary is going to be married,” she went on, turning round so as to face Wodehouse, and addressing him pointedly, though she did not look at him—to the exclusion of Jack, who, experienced man as he was, felt disconcerted, and addressed himself with more precaution to a task which was less easy than he supposed.
“Oh, Lucy!” cried Miss Wodehouse, with a blush worthy of eighteen. It was perhaps the first time that the fact had been so broadly stated, and the sudden announcement made before two men overwhelmed the timid woman. Then she was older than Lucy, and had picked up in the course of her career one or two inevitable scraps of experience, and she could not but wonder with a momentary qualm what Mr. Proctor might think of his brother-in-law. Lucy, who thought Mr. Proctor only too well off, went on without regarding her sister’s exclamation.
“I do not know when the marriage is to be—I don’t suppose they have fixed it yet,” said Lucy; “but it appears to me that it would save us all some trouble if we were allowed to remain until that time. I do not mean to ask any favour,” she said, with a little more sharpness and less dignity. “We could pay rent for that matter, if—if it were desired. She is your sister,” said Lucy, suddenly looking Wodehouse in the face, “as well as mine. I daresay she has done as much for you as she has for me. I don’t ask any favour for her—but I would cut off my little finger if that would please her,” cried the excited young woman, with a wildness of illustration so totally out of keeping with the matter referred to, that Miss Wodehouse, in the midst of her emotion, could scarcely restrain a scream of terror; “and you too might be willing to do something; you cannot have any kind of feeling for me,” Lucy continued, recovering herself; “but you might perhaps have some feeling for Mary. If we can be permitted to remain until her marriage takes place, it may perhaps bring about—a feeling—more like—relations; and I shall be able to—”
“Forgive you,” Lucy was about to say, but fortunately stopped herself in time; for it was the fact of his existence that she had to forgive, and naturally such an amount of toleration was difficult to explain. As for Wodehouse himself, he listened to this appeal with very mingled feelings. Some natural admiration and liking woke in his dull mind as Lucy spoke. He was not destitute of good impulses, nor of the ordinary human affections. His little sister was pretty, and a lady, and clever enough to put Jack Wentworth much more in the background than usual. He said, “By Jove” to himself three or four times over in his beard, and showed a little emotion when she said he could have no feeling for her. At that point of Lucy’s address he moved about uneasily in his chair, and plucked at his beard, and felt himself anything but comfortable. “By Jove! I never had a chance,” the prodigal said, in his undertone. “I might have cared a deal for her if I had had a chance. She might have done a fellow good, by Jove!” mutterings of which Lucy took no manner of notice, but proceeded with her speech. When she had ended, and it became apparent that an answer was expected of him, Wodehouse flushed all over with the embarrassment of the position. He cleared his throat, he shifted his eyes, which were embarrassed by Lucy’s gaze, he pushed his chair from the table, and made various attempts to collect himself, but at last ended by a pitiful appeal to Jack Wentworth, who had been looking seriously on. “You might come to a fellow’s assistance!” cried Wodehouse. “By Jove! it was for that you came here.”
“The Miss Wodehouses evidently prefer to communicate with their brother direct,” said Jack Wentworth, “which is a very natural sentiment. If I interfere, it is simply because I have had the advantage of talking the matter over, and understanding a little of what you mean. Miss Wodehouse, your brother is not disposed to act the part of a domestic tyrant. He has come here to offer you the house, which must have so
