I noticed that his appearance was considerably improved. He wore a glossy white shirt, his hair and beard had been trimmed—also his nails.
“Well, Lizzie,” he began, blinking his eyelids—sure sign of nervousness—“I thought I’d do something to get out of the rut. Beke is such a stick-in-the-mud sort of place, eh? I suppose this is the surprise of your life?”
“Well, Uncle, I confess it is—so far——”
“‘Happy the wooing that’s not long a doing,’ and you know we had no one to consult. We shall all shake down together, eh? The more the merrier. It’s a fine big house. I remember hearing that old Elias Puckle, who lived here eighty years ago, had a family of fifteen children!”
“How many bedrooms?” inquired the bride in her brusquest manner.
“About eight,” I replied, now thrusting myself into the conversation, as Lizzie seemed to be temporarily dumb. “Not counting the servants’ rooms, garrets, and cellars.”
“You are not thinking of taking P.G.’s?” put in the professor jocosely.
“No, no, darling, of course not.”
To hear the professor addressed as “darling” was altogether too much for my gravity. I choked, and then stooped for an imaginary handkerchief to hide my smiles.
“Have you done anything about your plays?” I asked as soon as I had recovered my usual composure.