“The others are so young.”
“Of course. It would be waiting till it was too late?”
“Yes, Mr Wynne.”
I interpolate here a plain statement of fact. The other girls resemble their mother, and the vicar’s type, reproduced in Miss Prudence, is immeasurably the more refined—not to say picturesque.
“Oh, if you won’t be serious!” sighed Prudence—though, as has been seen, I had said nothing.
“It certainly is not a laughing matter,” I admitted.
“How difficult the world is! Was Sir John at the Jenkins’s?”
“Sir John?”
“Sir John Ffolliot—of Ascombe, you know.”
“Tall red-faced young man?”