"But Miss Tickle may come?" said Miss Thoroughbung. Was the solid ground—the rock, as he believed it to be, of the ponies, about to sink beneath his feet? "Say that Miss Tickle may come. I should be nothing without Miss Tickle. You cannot be so hard-hearted as that."
"I don't see what is the good of talking about Miss Tickle till we have come to some settlement about the ponies. You say that you must have the ponies. To tell you the truth, Miss Thoroughbung, I don't like any such word as 'must.' And a good many things have occurred to me."
"What kind of things, deary?"
"I think you are inclined to be—gay—"
"Me! gay!"
"While I am sober, and perhaps a little grave in my manners of life. I am thinking only of domestic happiness, while your mind is intent upon social circles. I fear that you would look for your bliss abroad."
"In France or Germany?"
"When I say abroad, I mean out of your own house. There is perhaps some discrepancy of taste of which I ought earlier to have taken cognizance."
"Nothing of the kind," said Miss Thoroughbung. "I am quite content to live at home and do not want to go abroad, either to France nor yet to any other English county. I should never ask for anything, unless it be for a single month in London."
Here was a ground upon which he perhaps could make his stand. "Quite impossible!" said Mr. Prosper.