“Well, it is Daisy,” said Mr. Paull.
“Daisy! What is wrong?”
“Oh, there is nothing exactly wrong. But I shall know better presently. She is thinking of getting married.”
“Daisy married!”
Hugh smiled.
“Why not?”
“Somehow I can’t realise the idea of Daisy married. Who is the man?”
“Ah!” Mr. Paull drew up his chair and stirred the fire. It was a chill autumnal evening. “Do you remember the Danvers?” he asked.
“Of course.” (Mr. Danvers was a neighbouring clergyman, and his wife was a stout lady of much amiability, who, childless herself, had been fond of entertaining children.) “If I remember rightly,” said Hugh, “one of her juvenile parties brought about my first bilious attack.”
“I daresay. Well, you remember they went away for his health when you were at school, leaving a curate in charge. Since you came down last time, they have returned. At their house Daisy met this young man. I suppose you know that Mrs. Danvers was a Miss Clithero?”