“Thank you, thank you,” said Mr. Lyon, coming forward and seizing her hand.

“But you must let me say, let me suggest, that there are a great many things to be thought of.  There is such a difference in education, in all the habits of your lives, in all your relations.  Margaret would never be happy in a position where less was accorded to her than she had all her life.  Nor would her pride let her take such a position.”

“But as my wife—­”

“Yes, I know that is sufficient in your mind.  Have you consulted your mother, Mr. Lyon?”

“Not yet.”

“And have you written to any one at home about my niece?”

“Not yet.”

“And does it seem a little difficult to do so?” This was a probe that went even deeper than the questioner knew.  Mr. Lyon hesitated, seeing again as in a vision the astonishment of his family.  He was conscious of an attempt at self-deception when he replied: 

“Not difficult, not at all difficult, but I thought I would wait till I had something definite to say.”

“Margaret is, of course, perfectly free to act for herself.  She has a very ardent nature, but at the same time a great deal of what we call common sense.  Though her heart might be very much engaged, she would hesitate to put herself in any society which thought itself superior to her.  You see I speak with great frankness.”

It was a new position for Mr. Lyon to find his prospective rank seemingly an obstacle to anything he desired.  For a moment the whimsicality of it interrupted the current of his feeling.  He thought of the probable comments of the men of his London club upon the drift his conversation was taking with a New England spinster about his fitness to marry a school-teacher.  With a smile that was summoned to hide his annoyance, he said, “I don’t see how I can defend myself, Miss Forsythe.”

“Oh,” she replied, with an answering smile that recognized his view of the humor of the situation, “I was not thinking of you, Mr. Lyon, but of the family and the society that my niece might enter, to which rank is of the first importance.”

“I am simply John Lyon, Miss Forsythe.  I may never be anything else.  But if it were otherwise, I did not suppose that Americans objected to rank.”

It was an unfortunate speech, felt to be so the instant it was uttered.  Miss Forsythe’s pride was touched, and the remark was not softened to her by the, air of half banter with which the sentence concluded.  She said, with a little stillness and formality:  “I fear, Mr. Lyon, that your sarcasm is too well merited.  But there are Americans who make a distinction between rank and blood.  Perhaps it is very undemocratic, but there is nowhere else more pride of family, of honorable descent, than here.  We think very much of what we call good blood.  And you will pardon me for saying that we are accustomed to speak of some persons and families abroad which have the highest rank as being thoroughly bad blood.  If I am not mistaken, you also recognize the historic fact of ignoble blood in the owners of noble titles.  I only mean, Mr. Lyon,” she added, with a softening of manner, “that all Americans do not think that rank covers a multitude of sins.”