—“and Ethel Mary Bell, spinster, both of this parish.”
Both absurdly happy, probably, in a “Smithie” kind of way. I wondered if “he” were red and greasy, like so many butchers? Whether he’d leave “her” at home while he went and sat all the evening in the “Spotted Dog”?
My young man—I suppose to some people the Governor would be my “young man”—isn’t that sort. Not that it need make the slightest difference to me if he were! I needn’t worry about the sort of husband he’ll make—to someone else.
“Also between——”
What a lot of engaged couples! Six, at least, were “called” to-day. And I wondered about each of those six engaged girls.... Which of them had bloomed out into what books call “this strange new happiness that had come to her” on HIS account, and which of them just wanted to be “engaged” for its own sake?
For supposing an engagement were stripped of all its glamour of importance? Yes, my dears! Take away the delight of discussing, with other girls, the possibilities of finest nainsook and torchon. Take away the chance of growing positively left-handed from showing off “his” ring. Take away the joy of being, instead of an unattended wallflower at dances and parties, always more or less of a guarded treasure. Take away that feeling of being at one and the same time much younger, much older and much better-looking. Take away the comforting conviction that now you needn’t fret about what’s to become of you when you grow passée and “long in the tooth,” as Major Montresor unkindly calls various ex-favourites of his own. Take all those “extras” away—and what remains of your pride and joy in HIM alone? There’s a sum for the “really” engaged girl. I can’t help feeling I can guess how it would work out in—say, four cases out of six!
Perhaps I’m wrong.... Perhaps the whole six of them would still go on feeling that their unparalleled engagement had caused the sun to rise upon a new heaven and a brand-new earth. But it’s odds, long odds, against any one of the six having an “affair” in the least like—mine.
And the curate went on reading out names.
“Also——”
“Between William Waters, bachelor, of this parish,” breathed his younger sister in a gusty whisper, “and Nancy Monica Trant, spinster—of the parish of what, Nancy?”