Lucy, she would have said, could be nobody in a room except
by dint of her tongue, whereas Griselda Grantly would have held her
peace for a whole evening, and yet would have impressed everybody
by the majesty of her presence. Then again Lucy had no money--and,
again, Lucy was only the sister of her own parish clergyman. People
are rarely prophets in their own country, and Lucy was no prophet
at Framley; she was none, at least, in the eyes of Lady Lufton.
Once before, as may be remembered, she had had fears on this
subject--fears, not so much for her son, whom she could hardly bring
herself to suspect of such a folly, but for Lucy, who might be
foolish enough to fancy that the lord was in love with her. Alas!
alas! her son's question fell upon the poor woman at the present
moment with the weight of a terrible blow. "Is there anything about
her which makes her unfit to be my wife?" Those were her son's last
words.
"Dearest Ludovic, dearest Ludovic!" and she got up and came over to
him, "I do think so; I do, indeed."
"Think what?" said he, in a tone that was almost angry.
"I do think that she is unfit to be your wife. She is not of that
class from which I would wish to see you choose."
"She is of the same class as Griselda Grantly.
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