‘Did you try to find out what sort of character he had at home?’
‘Yes, there was no harm in it, only he had no business to speak of, everybody goes to Dr. Younghusband.’
‘Then, really, if he is an honest young man, as he
seems to be a patriotic fellow, are you certain that you are wise in objecting?’
‘I do object,’ said Mrs. Nicholson, and indeed her motives for refusing her consent were only too obvious.
‘Are they quite definitely engaged?’ asked Merton.
‘Yes they are now, by letter, and she says she will wait for him till I die, or she is twenty-six, if I don’t give my consent. He writes every mail, from places with outlandish names, in Africa. And she keeps looking in a glass ball, like the labourers’ women, some of them; she’s sunk as low as that; so superstitious; and sometimes she tells me that she sees what he is doing, and where he is; and now and then, when his letters come, she shows me bits of them, to prove she was right. But just as often she’s wrong; only she won’t listen to me. She says it’s Telly, Tellyopathy. I say it’s flat nonsense.’
‘I quite agree with you,’ said Merton, with conviction. ‘After all, though, honest, as far as you hear. . . .’
‘Oh yes, honest enough, but that’s all,’ interrupted Mrs. Nicholson, with a hearty sneer.
‘Though he bears a good character, from what you tell me he seems to be a very silly young man.’