“Mr. Romayne doesn’t go into Society, or we should have met long since,” Mrs. Eyrecourt replied.  “He is a striking person—­and I noticed him when he shook hands with you.  That was quite enough for me.  I have just introduced myself to him as your mother.  He was a little stately and stiff, but most charming when he knew who I was.  I volunteered to find you.  He was quite astonished.  I think he took me for your elder sister.  Not the least like each other—­are we, Lady Loring?  She takes after her poor dear father. He was constitutionally indolent.  My sweet child, rouse yourself.  You have drawn a prize in the great lottery at last.  If ever a man was in love, Mr. Romayne is that man.  I am a physiognomist, Lady Loring, and I see the passions in the face.  Oh, Stella, what a property!  Vange Abbey.  I once drove that way when I was visiting in the neighborhood.  Superb!  And another fortune (twelve thousand a year and a villa at Highgate) since the death of his aunt.  And my daughter may be mistress of this if she only plays her cards properly.  What a compensation after all that we suffered through that monster, Winterfield!”

“Mamma!  Pray don’t—!”

“Stella, I will not be interrupted, when I am speaking to you for your own good.  I don’t know a more provoking person, Lady Loring, than my daughter—­on certain occasions.  And yet I love her.  I would go through fire and water for my beautiful child.  Only last week I was at a wedding, and I thought of Stella.  The church was crammed to the doors!  A hundred at the wedding breakfast!  The bride’s lace—­there; no language can describe it.  Ten bridesmaids, in blue and silver.  Reminded me of the ten virgins.  Only the proportion of foolish ones, this time, was certainly more than five.  However, they looked well.  The Archbishop proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom; so sweetly pathetic.  Some of us cried.  I thought of my daughter.  Oh, if I could live to see Stella the central attraction, so to speak, of such a wedding as that.  Only I would have twelve bridesmaids at least, and beat the blue and silver with green and gold.  Trying to the complexion, you will say.  But there are artificial improvements.  At least, I am told so.  What a house this would be—­a broad hint, isn’t it, dear Lady Loring?—­what a house for a wedding, with the drawing-room to assemble in and the picture gallery for the breakfast.  I know the Archbishop.  My darling, he shall marry you.  Why don’t you go into the next room?  Ah, that constitutional indolence.  If you only had my energy, as I used to say to your poor father. Will you go?  Yes, dear Lady Loring, I should like a glass of champagne, and another of those delicious chicken sandwiches.  If you don’t go, Stella, I shall forget every consideration of propriety, and, big as you are, I shall push you out.”

Stella yielded to necessity.  “Keep her quiet, if you can,” she whispered to Lady Loring, in the moment of silence that followed.  Even Mrs. Eyrecourt was not able to talk while she was drinking champagne.