Mr. Sperry could only gaze blankly at his brother official. Had they heard aright? Was this the recklessness of nervous excitement in a woman of delicate health, or had the impostor cast some glamour upon her? Or was she frightened of Sam Barstow and afraid to reject his candidate? The last thought was an inspiration. He drew her quickly aside. “One moment, Mrs. Martin! You said to me an hour ago that you didn't intend to have asked Mr. Barstow to send you an assistant. I hope that, merely because he HAS done so, you don't feel obliged to accept this man against your better judgment?”
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Martin quietly.
The case seemed hopeless. And Sperry had the miserable conviction that by having insisted upon Mrs. Martin's judgment being final they had estopped their own right to object. But how could they have foreseen her extraordinary taste? He, however, roused himself for a last appeal.
“Mrs. Martin,” he said in a lower voice, “I ought to tell you that the Reverend Mr. Peaseley strongly doubts the competency of that young man.”
“Didn't Mr. Barstow make a selection at your request?” asked Mrs. Martin, with a faint little nervous cough.
“Yes—but”—
“Then his competency only concerns ME—and I don't see what Mr. Peaseley has to say about it.”
Could he believe his senses? There was a decided flush in the woman's pale face, and the first note of independence and asperity in her voice.
That night, in the privacy of his conjugal chamber, Mr. Sperry relieved his mind to another of the enigmatical sex,—the stout Southwestern partner of his joys and troubles. But the result was equally unsatisfactory. “Well, Abner,” said the lady, “I never could see, for all your men's praises of Mrs. Martin, what that feller can see in HER to like!”