“I’ll give them up, if you say so,” said he; “but I’ve always heard that they are good, quiet girls—domesticated, you know—and—”
“Who is next?” she pursued, with a return of her arbitrary manner.
“Well,” he suggested, bashfully, “I haven’t any reason to suppose she would look at me, and it sounds so conceited in me to suggest that such a handsome woman—and so rich, too—would listen to me, but—”
“Who is this paragon?” his companion demanded.
“Didn’t I mention her name?” he responded. “I thought I had. We passed her only a little while ago—Mrs. Poole.”
“Mrs. Poole?” the girl replied. “That was the sick-looking creature in black lolling back in a victoria, wasn’t it?”
“She isn’t sick, really,” he retorted; “but I don’t think mourning is becoming to her. Of course, if we are married she will wear colors and—”
“I didn’t know you were willing to take up with a widow!” she interrupted, with a slight touch of acerbity. “I thought it was a girl you were looking for!”
“It was a wife of some sort,” he replied. “I don’t know myself what would suit me best. That’s why I am consulting you. I’m going to rely on your judgment—”
“But you mustn’t do that!” she cried.