'
'What do you mean, papa?' said Freda, effectually roused.
'Well, my dear, it is thought--I mean, I have fancied--I mean
Lady--I--I--the fact is, are you attached to Rowland Prothero? Now, I am
not angry, Freda; he is one of the nicest young men, and the best--but I
should have preferred Gwynne, or Sir Hugh, or--or--in fact, many others,
in a worldly point of view. A tenant's son, and only a curate!--and all
that sort of thing. But then as Lady--as--as I--as your father, my dear,
I should like to make you happy. You see, that day at the vicarage,
we--that is to say, I--thought there was something peculiar in his
manner and yours; and to be sure, he may be a bishop, he is so good and
clever. A great favourite of mine. And if he lives in London, it doesn't
so much matter; and--and--in short--Freda--'
'Papa, I understand,' said Freda, rising from her seat with majestic
pride, 'Lady Mary has been kind enough to suggest, doubtless for her own
ends, what never could have entered your mind. I am very much obliged to
you for forgetting, on my account, what I cannot forget on my own, that
I am a Gwynne of Glanyravon! and I daresay you meant it kindly. But you
may make my compliments to Lady Mary Nugent, and tell her, that if there
was anything peculiar in Rowland Prothero's manner on that particular
Sunday, it was because he had been bold enough to propose for me, and I
had rejected him.
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