We must really do something for her in the future, when
everything is settled. Let her ask for me, and then the servants
will fancy she's a lady's maid or something of that sort, come
after a place, and won't talk."
So that evening Mary Sewell, addressed by the butler as "young
woman," was ushered into the small drawing-room that connects the
library of No. -- Grosvenor Square with the other reception rooms.
The countess, now all amiability, rose to meet her.
"My son will be here in a moment," she explained, "he has informed
me of the purport of your letter. Believe me, my dear Miss Sewell,
no one can regret his thoughtless conduct more than I do. But
young men will be young men, and they do not stop to reflect that
what may be a joke to them may be taken quite seriously by others."
"I don't regard the matter as a joke, my lady," replied Mary
somewhat curtly.
"Of course not, my dear," added the countess, "that's what I'm
saying. It was very wrong of him altogether. But with your pretty
face, you will not, I am sure, have long to wait for a husband; we
must see what we can do for you."
The countess certainly lacked tact; it must have handicapped her
exceedingly.
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