![]() You see, papa dear, it’s her one venture. A woman has to remember that she’s fixing her position for life. Marriage is a matter of sentiment to a man-very proper that it should be. One must look at the practical side of these things. One would think the girl was selling herself. Oh, I do wish you women wouldn’t discuss the matter in that horribly business-like way. It would be a bad bargain for me, if even the cash were not certain. I think you may trust me to see to that, mamma. I suppose there’s no doubt about Harry’s income. So much depends on how you begin, and with prudence there’s really no reason why you shouldn’t do very well. Well, I only want you to be careful, my dear. There will hardly be enough in common to make the company desired, on either side. I’m not likely to have many “dear sweet girls” on my visiting list. Their manners are terribly old-fashioned, and they’ve no notion how to dress, and those sort of people let down the tone of a house. They’re dear sweet girls, and you can be very nice to them but don’t have them too much about. If you take my advice, Marion, you won’t encourage those sisters of Harry’s more than you can help. And, besides, there are certain people that one has to be civil to, that, at the same time, one doesn’t want to introduce into one’s regular circle. A pretty figure we should cut in the county if I didn’t know how to make fivepence look like a shilling. None of us can afford to live up to the income we want people to think we’ve got. She is going to marry a rich man who will be able to entertain his guests decently. Marion wants to forget those lessons, not learn them. He always used to drink a tumblerful before breakfast such a funny thing to do. That old Indian major-what was his name?-said it suited him better than anything else he had ever tried. And there was a special champagne she always kept for the river-only twenty-five shillings a dozen, I think she told me she paid for it, and very good it was too, for the price. She always used to have cold meat and pickles for lunch-called it a picnic. You remember it-a poky hole I always thought it, but it had a lot of green stuff over the door-looked very pretty from the other side of the river. Your poor cousin Emily used to work off quite half her list that way-relations and Americans, and those sort of people, you know-at that little place of theirs at Goring. One can entertain so cheaply up the river one is not expected to make much of a show. Yes I should keep this on if I were you, Marion. MARION stands by the open French window, looking out. TRAVERS, smoking a cigar, sits the other side of the room. The shadows creep from their corners, driving before them the fading twilight.
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