"Conceive becoming Mrs. Natty Bumppo, me dear, even for twenty
thousand a year. If you could summon up courage to do the deed, I
couldn't summon up courage to continue my correspondence with ye."
Elsley knew that that was a lie; that the old lady would have let her
marry the most triumphant snob in England, if he had half that income:
but unfortunately Lucia capped her aunt's nonsense with "There is no
fear of my ever marrying any one who has not a graceful name," and a
look at Vavasour, which said--"And you have one, and therefore I--"
For the matter had then been settled between them. This was too much
for his vanity, and too much, also, for his fears of losing Lucia by
confessing the truth. So Elsley went on, ashamed of his real name,
ashamed of having concealed it, ashamed of being afraid that it would
be discovered,--in a triple complication of shame, which made him
gradually, as it makes every man, moody, suspicious, apt to take
offence where none is meant. Besides they were very poor. He, though
neither extravagant nor profligate, was, like most literary men who
are accustomed to live from hand to mouth, careless, self-indulgent,
unmethodical. She knew as much of housekeeping as the Queen of Oude
does; and her charming little dreams of shopping for herself were
rudely enough broken, ere the first week was out, by the horrified
looks of Clara, when she returned from her first morning's marketing
for the weekly consumption, with nothing but a woodcock, some
truffles, and a bunch of celery.
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