‘And she’s not accomplished, mamma.  She can’t play.’

’Go on, Fanny.  What else does she want to bring her up to your standard?’

‘Nay!  John,’ said his mother, ’that speech of Fanny’s did no harm.  I myself heard Miss Hale say she could not play.  If you would let us alone, we could perhaps like her, and see her merits.’

‘I’m sure I never could!’ murmured Fanny, protected by her mother.  Mr. Thornton heard, but did not care to reply.  He was walking up and down the dining-room, wishing that his mother would order candles, and allow him to set to work at either reading or writing, and so put a stop to the conversation.  But he never thought of interfering in any of the small domestic regulations that Mrs. Thornton observed, in habitual remembrance of her old economies.

‘Mother,’ said he, stopping, and bravely speaking out the truth, ‘I wish you would like Miss Hale.’

‘Why?’ asked she, startled by his earnest, yet tender manner.  ‘You’re never thinking of marrying her?—­a girl without a penny.’

‘She would never have me,’ said he, with a short laugh.

‘No, I don’t think she would,’ answered his mother.  ’She laughed in my face, when I praised her for speaking out something Mr. Bell had said in your favour.  I liked the girl for doing it so frankly, for it made me sure she had no thought of you; and the next minute she vexed me so by seeming to think——­Well, never mind!  Only you’re right in saying she’s too good an opinion of herself to think of you.  The saucy jade!  I should like to know where she’d find a better!’ If these words hurt her son, the dusky light prevented him from betraying any emotion.  In a minute he came up quite cheerfully to his mother, and putting one hand lightly on her shoulder, said: 

’Well, as I’m just as much convinced of the truth of what you have been saying as you can be; and as I have no thought or expectation of ever asking her to be my wife, you’ll believe me for the future that I’m quite disinterested in speaking about her.  I foresee trouble for that girl—­perhaps want of motherly care—­and I only wish you to be ready to be a friend to her, in case she needs one.  Now, Fanny,’ said he, ’I trust you have delicacy enough to understand, that it is as great an injury to Miss Hale as to me—­in fact, she would think it a greater—­to suppose that I have any reason, more than I now give, for begging you and my mother to show her every kindly attention.’

‘I cannot forgive her her pride,’ said his mother; ’I will befriend her, if there is need, for your asking, John.  I would befriend Jezebel herself if you asked me.  But this girl, who turns up her nose at us all—­who turns up her nose at you——­’

’Nay, mother; I have never yet put myself, and I mean never to put myself, within reach of her contempt.’

’Contempt, indeed!’—­(One of Mrs. Thornton’s expressive snorts.)—­’Don’t go on speaking of Miss Hale, John, if I’ve to be kind to her.  When I’m with her, I don’t know if I like or dislike her most; but when I think of her, and hear you talk of her, I hate her.  I can see she’s given herself airs to you as well as if you’d told me out.’