“You _are_ so kind,” said Mildred presently, conscious of the flood of sympathy that was pouring forth to sustain and float her onward in her romantic narration.
After a little while Miss Verinder asked who the famous man was.
“But _who_ is he, Mildred? You haven’t told me yet.”
Mildred, smiling proudly, said he was Alwyn Beckett, the actor. At the moment he was not actually before the public, but he was understudying the two big parts in a play called _Five Old Men and a Dog_.
An actor; a young actor! Miss Verinder at once became inwardly calm again. The young man was not of course truly famous; but some sort of unsubstantial fame he hoped to attain one day. Even the opposition of the parents was not solidly founded; they merely objected to the young man because they did not like his shadowy precarious profession, and because, further, they doubted if he would do any good in it. All her sympathy remained, but while Mildred went on talking about the attitude of Mr. and Mrs. Parker she ceased to listen with attention. This was a trifling commonplace little business when compared with the real romances, the big romances of life.
But then Mildred banged out something that gave her a violent shock; indeed it shook her to her very foundations. She gasped, and uttered a faint cry.
Mildred had been saying that she felt desperate, and inclined to run away.
“And marry him without your parents’ consent?” Emmie had said dreamily.
“Mildred!” said Emmie, uttering that little cry. “What _do_ you mean?”
“Well, what I mean is that if they’re so damned old-fashioned, I don’t see why they shouldn’t stew in their own gravy--at least for a bit. Don’t you see? When they find I’m gone in that way, if they’re really genuine in their feelings, it will be the regular mid-Victorian business. The lost child--our daughter gone to perdition. Get her married now to the scoundrel that has lured her away. Make her an honest woman at any price”; and Mildred laughed.
Although still preserving an aspect of calmness, Miss Verinder was greatly agitated by this monstrous suggestion. Again for a moment or two it seemed as if all this was a dream--or as if the innocent modern girl was mocking her with a travesty of her own ancient experience. How could she really contemplate taking so disastrous a step? With no insurmountable obstacle between her and her lover, with no irremovable cause to prevent their being eventually united, how could the child speak thus of throwing away her good name and bringing disgrace on all her family? It was fantastic.