"Yes—but you wouldn't marry his mother."
"No—but I should only be the more uncomfortably and intimately conscious of her."
"Even when," Lady Sandgate optimistically put it, "she so markedly likes you?"
This determined in the girl a fine impatience. "She doesn't 'like' me, she only wants me—which is a very different thing; wants me for my father's so particularly beautiful position, and my mother's so supremely great people, and for everything we have been and have done, and still are and still have: except of course poor not-at-all-model Kitty."
To this luminous account of the matter Lady Sandgate turned as to a genial sun-burst. "I see indeed—for the general immaculate connection."
The words had no note of irony, but Lady Grace, in her great seriousness, glanced with deprecation at the possibility. "Well, we haven't had false notes. We've scarcely even had bad moments."
"Yes, you've been beatific!"—Lady Sandgate enviously, quite ruefully, felt it. But any further treatment of the question was checked
