“Except one! He was a dead bore!” Abby’s eyes began to dance again. “Have you been picturing me nursing a broken heart all these years? My dear, I do beg your pardon, but it is quite useless to make me the heroine of a tragic romance: I must always disappoint you.”

“Next you will tell me that you too are determined to arrange a splendid match for poor little Fanny! I hope I know you rather too well to believe that!”

“I hope you do. I may own that Papa chanced to be right when he sent Thornaby packing, but I still hold to it that this resolve he had—and my grandfather before him, and James after him!—to arrange only the most advantageous marriages for every one of his children was nothing short of an obsession! And you may be sure I won’t allow Fanny to be sacrificed as you and Jane were! Mary was so compliant as to fall in love with George, but only think of Jane, positively forced into marriage with that odious creature who had nothing but his wealth and his title to recommend him!”

Selina, who had derived consolation all her life from the inculcated belief that Papa must know best, said feebly: “No, no! How can you say such things, Abby? One would think—not but what—perhaps sometimes he may have been a trifle—But I am sure he did only what he believed to be right!”

“But for Papa,” said Abby inexorably, “you would have married that curate—I forget his name, but I daresay you would have been very happy, with a quiver full of children, and—Oh, dearest, forgive me! I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

Selina had indeed dissolved into tears, but she wiped them away, saying: “No, no! It was only remembering, and even dear Mama, who entered into all my feelings, couldn’t conceal from me her apprehension that he would become bald before he was forty! It is you who should be pitied!”