As to Aldous Raeburn, she had barely spoken to him before the day when Marcella announced the engagement, and the lover a few hours later had claimed her daughter at the mother’s hands with an emotion to which Mrs. Boyce found her usual difficulty in responding.  She had done her best, however, to be gracious and to mask her surprise that he should have proposed, that Lord Maxwell should have consented, and that Marcella should have so lightly fallen a victim.  One surprise, however, had to be confessed, at least to herself.  After her interview with her future son-in-law, Mrs. Boyce realised that for the first time for fifteen years she was likely to admit a new friend.  The impression made upon him by her own singular personality had translated itself in feelings and language which, against her will as it were, established an understanding, an affinity.  That she had involuntarily aroused in him the profoundest and most chivalrous pity was plain to her.  Yet for the first time in her life she did not resent it; and Marcella watched her mother’s attitude with a mixture of curiosity and relief.

Then followed talk of an early wedding, communications from Lord Maxwell to Mr. Boyce of a civil and formal kind, a good deal more notice from the “county,” and finally this definite statement from Aldous Raeburn as to the settlement he proposed to make upon his wife, and the joint income which he and she would have immediately at their disposal.

Under all these growing and palpable evidences of Marcella’s future wealth and position, Mrs. Boyce had shown her usual restless and ironic spirit.  But of late, and especially to-day, restlessness had become oppression.  While Marcella was so speedily to become the rich and independent woman, they themselves, Marcella’s mother and father, were very poor, in difficulties even, and likely to remain so.  She gathered from her husband’s grumbling that the provision of a suitable trousseau for Marcella would tax his resources to their utmost.  How long would it be before they were dipping in Marcella’s purse?  Mrs. Boyce’s self-tormenting soul was possessed by one of those nightmares her pride had brought upon her in grim succession during these fifteen years.  And this pride, strong towards all the world, was nowhere so strong or so indomitable, at this moment, as towards her own daughter.  They were practically strangers to each other; and they jarred.  To inquire where the fault lay would have seemed to Mrs. Boyce futile.

* * * * *

Darkness had come on fast, and Mrs. Boyce was in the act of ringing for lights when her husband entered.

“Where’s Marcella?” he asked as he threw himself into a chair with the air of irritable fatigue which was now habitual to him.

“Only gone to take off her things and tell William about tea.  She will be down directly.”

“Does she know about that settlement?”

“Yes, I told her.  She thought it generous, but not—­I think—­unsuitable.  The world cannot be reformed on nothing.”