“Oh, no, you’re not my husband,” said Dolly. “Sit here;” and she made room by her, as she continued, “I rather like Mr. George.”
“I’m ashamed of you,” I observed. “Considering your age—”
“Mr. Carter!”
“Considering, I say, his age, your conduct is scandalous. I shall never introduce any nice boys to you again.”
“Oh, please do,” said Dolly, clasping her hands.
“You give them roses,” said I, accusingly. “You make them false to their earliest loves—”
“She was a pudding-faced thing,” observed Dolly.
I frowned. Dolly, by an accident, allowed the tip of her finger to touch my arm for an instant.
“He’s a nice boy,” said she. “How like he is to you, Mr. Carter!”
“I am a long way past that,” said I. “I am thirty-six.”