“Well, even if I did and, mind you, I’m not saying that I do, it is no worse for my health than dancing all night, is it? I’m very fond of Aunt Flora, and I’d do more than that for her.”
“She has added years to your life; the gay flitting-about Sophy, with her pretty kittenish ways and harmless claws, has been thrust in a sack—and drowned!”
“Well, I do think you might have given her Christian burial,” protested Sophy with a laugh.
“Christian burial brings me to the Marriage Service. What do you think—that great stupid Irishman, has at last blundered out a proposal, and in me,” rising and making a curtsey, “you behold the future Mrs. Patrick FitzGerald.”
“Oh, Fuchsia!” jumping up to embrace her, “I do congratulate you, and I do hope you will be very happy.”
“Yes, I believe we shall. I have money and he——” she hesitated, and Sophy added:
“Has a warm, kind heart.”
“Oh, well, I was about to say looks, but I’ll throw in the heart as well! Next week I am going up to Calcutta to see about the trousseau and business. I’m real sorry to be the means of smashing up the Chummery Quartette.”
“And when does the blow fall?”
“Not for some time; Patsy has asked for a long day.”