At the window his father, James, was still scrutinizing the marks on the
piece of china.
"I wonder at Jolyon's allowing this engagement," he said to Aunt Ann.
"They tell me there's no chance of their getting married for years.
This young Bosinney" (he made the word a dactyl in opposition to general
usage of a short o) "has got nothing. When Winifred married Dartie, I
made him bring every penny into settlement--lucky thing, too--they'd ha'
had nothing by this time!"
Aunt Ann looked up from her velvet chair. Grey curls banded her
forehead, curls that, unchanged for decades, had extinguished in the
family all sense of time. She made no reply, for she rarely spoke,
husbanding her aged voice; but to James, uneasy of conscience, her look
was as good as an answer.
"Well," he said, "I couldn't help Irene's having no money. Soames was in
such a hurry; he got quite thin dancing attendance on her."
Putting the bowl pettishly down on the piano, he let his eyes wander to
the group by the door.
"It's my opinion," he said unexpectedly, "that it's just as well as it
is."
Aunt Ann did not ask him to explain this strange utterance. She knew
what he was thinking. If Irene had no money she would not be so foolish
as to do anything wrong; for they said--they said--she had been asking
for a separate room; but, of course, Soames had not.
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