She threw her arms round his neck, whispering: "Dear Oliver!--dear
Oliver!--I just wished you to know--if it is as I think--that you had my
blessing."
He drew back, a little shrinking and reluctant--yet still flushed, as it
were, with the last rays Diana's sun had shed upon him.
"Things mustn't be hurried, mother."
"No--no--they sha'n't. But you know how I have wished to see you
happy--how ambitious I have been for you!"
"Yes, mother, I know. You have been always very good to me." He had
recovered his composure, and stood holding her hand and smiling at her.
"What a charming creature, Oliver! It is a pity, of course, her father
has indoctrinated her with those opinions, but--"
"Opinions!" he said, scornfully--"what do they matter!" But he could not
discuss Diana. His blood was still too hot within him.
"Of course--of course!" said Lady Lucy, soothingly. "She is so
young--she will develop. But what a wife, Oliver, she will make--how she
might help a man on--with her talents and her beauty and her refinement.
She has such dignity, too, for her years."
He made no reply, except to repeat:
"Don't hurry it, mother--don't hurry it.
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