“Not much,” he said, then laughed, and looked her in the face. “You do not understand me, aunt. I think it quite likely that if it were put before her as a suitable arrangement, Lucy might make up her mind to marry me. She is beginning to get perplexed in her life. She has been on the point of confiding in me two or three times.” “What?” said Lady Randolph, in great excitement. She could not think of anything but love about which a girl could be confidential, and Bertie Russell, like a Jack-in-the-box, suddenly jumped up in her anxious brain. But Sir Thomas shook his head. “That is exactly what I can not tell you,” he said. “I thought it might be some entanglement with that young fellow of the book; but it is not that. It is quite possible she might marry me--” “Well, but, Tom, why should you be so very particular? Think what it would be for the estate. You might pay off everything, and regain the first position in the county. You ought to have the first position in the county. What is Lord Langton in comparison with the Randolphs? A nobody; and all this that girl could do. Only think what her fortune could do. I am not mercenary-- I don’t think I am mercenary--but when you just realize it. Oh, how often I have said to myself, your uncle had no right to marry me. He ought to have married somebody with money. And now if you can set it right, why, oh, why, should you have any absurd scruples? Of course, Lucy would be very glad; and she would make you a good little wife. She is not impassioned--she never will be out of her wits about any one; if that is what you want, Tom.” “No, I don’t think that is what I want,” he said; “but in the meantime we need not quarrel about it; for you know there are the guardians to be taken into consideration, and it would be foolish to show one’s hand. And then there is plenty of time. One ought to go cautiously to work.” He laughed as he quoted all her own little speeches to her. But for her part Lady Randolph could have cried--how difficult it is to be patient when you are anxious! She had been alarmed by what she thought a too hasty progress; now she was cast down to the depths of trouble by this sudden suggestion that no progress at all had been made. She did not know what to do. It was no use speaking to Tom, so self-willed was he--always taking his own way. She had no patience with him. _Of course_ Lucy liked him--how could she help it? And to think that he would run the risk of losing all that for the merest fantastic nonsense! Oh, she had no patience with him! But when he only laughed and made a joke of it all what was the use of saying anything? Poor Lady Randolph! She could not let things take their own way. She was unhappy not to be able to guide them, and yet she knew that she could not guide them. Either they would go on too quickly or they would not go on at all.