“How old is your ward, Miss Manton?”
“About your age,—though she looks much more childish.”
“Pretty, of course?”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“Simply because in novels they are always painted as pretty as Persephone; and the only wards I ever knew happen to be fictitious characters.”
“Novels are by no means infallible mirrors of nature, and few wards are as attractive as my black-eyed pet. Muriel will be very handsome, I hope, when she is grown; but now she impresses me as merely sweet, piquant, and pretty.”
“Did you know her prior to your recent visit?”
“Yes; her father’s house was my home whenever I chanced to be in New York, and I have seen her, occasionally, since she was a little girl. For your sake, as well as mine, I am glad she will reside here, because I hope she will prove in every respect a pleasant companion for you.”
“Thank you; but, unfortunately, that is one luxury of which I never felt the need, and with which, permit me to tell you, I can readily dispense. I have little respect for women, and no desire to be wearied with their inane garrulity.”