“You know, Mary, I have never tried to marry you.  Frankly, my dear, I do not believe very much in pushing marriages.  My own, and most others that I have known intimately, might have been very reasonably made—­let us say—­in purgatory.  But a girl must marry some time or other, if she be rich.  And you will have plenty of money, my poor child!  You shall do exactly as you please, but I must admit that Charles is a most unobjectionable parti.  After all, there is only one other man I would sooner give you to, Mary, and he is impossible.”

“Aunt Marcelle!  Aunt Marcelle!” pleaded the young girl faintly, her dark head bent very low now over the arm of the chair.

Lady Garnett had been talking so far in a somewhat desultory fashion, interspersing her words with brief caresses to the pug who was curled up in her lap.  Now she put down the little dog with a brusqueness which hurt his dignity; he pawed fretfully at Mary’s dress, and, attracting no attention, trotted of to his basket on the rug, where he settled himself with a short growl of discontent.  And Lady Garnett, with a sudden change of tone and a new tenderness in her voice, just stooped a little and touched the young girl’s forehead with her thin lips.

“My poor child!” she said, “my dear little Mary!  Did you suppose I didn’t know?  Did you think I was blind, as well as very old, that I shouldn’t see the change in you, and guess why?”

“Ah!” cried the girl with a break in her voice.  “What are you saying?  What do you make me say?”

“Nothing! nothing!” said the old lady; “you need not tell me anything.  It is only I who tell you—­like the old immortal in Daudet, J’ai vu ca moi!—­and it will pass as everything passes.  That is not the least sad part, though now you will hardly believe it.  You see, I don’t lie to you; I tell you quite plainly that it is no good.  Some men are made so—­vois tu, ma cherie!—­to see only one woman, an inaccessible one, when they seem to see many, and he would be like that.  Only it is a pity.  And yet who would have foreseen it—­that he should charm you, Mary?  He so tired and old and use—­for he is old for you, dear, though he might be my son—­with his humorous, indolent, mocking talk, and his great, sad eyes.  It’s wicked of me, Mary, but I love you for it; so few girls would have cared, for he is a wretched match.  And I blame myself, too.”

“Because I am foolish and utterly ashamed?” cried the girl from her obscurity, in a hard, small voice which the other did not know.

“Foolish!” she exclaimed.  “Well, we women are all that, and some men—­the best of them.  But ashamed?  Because you have a wise mother, my darling, who guesses things?  I have never had any children but you and him.  And no one but I can ever know.  No; I was sorry because I had to hurt you.  But it was best, my dear, because you are so strong.  Yes, you are strong, Mary!”