"I can't. I have refused."
"Then write and say you have changed your mind."
"It's too late. And they don't want me to change it, Tom—they don't indeed; they only asked me out of politeness; they did not press me the least little bit. I am sure they were delighted when I declined. They had calculated upon it."
"Pooh! That's your imagination."
"It is not. What, are you going to accuse me of not speaking the truth?"
"No, no, my dear; but sometimes—well, never mind; we are all liable to make mistakes. And when I think of the letter they wrote, asking you—and I'm sure they meant it——"
"They could not have meant it, because when I only half declined—I left it open to them to ask again—they would not take the hint. Oh, they don't want me for anything now, and I would die sooner than ever force myself on them again!"
Tom inquired, in a grave tone, what I had said in my letter—what reason I had given for declining, or half-declining, in the first instance; and I told him.
"And, dear," I urged, "if I am too old—and they accepted that as a valid excuse—what are you?"
"Hm-m," he mused. "I never thought of that. Harry's the man—not me—if there's anything in being godfather beyond the name. Only Harry jibs at saying 'I will' and 'all this I steadfastly believe'—as if it were for a young donkey like him to criticise the Prayer Book that's been good enough for generations of us. That boy's head is full of maggots. So's Emily's."