“Lord, how ugly he is! Why, Charley, he hasn’t the look of you. One would think, too, he was angry at us. Ay, old gentleman, you don’t like to see me leaning on Cousin Charley’s arm! That must be the luncheon; I’m sure I hear knives and forks rattling there.”
The old butler’s astonishment was not inferior to my own a few minutes before, when I entered the dining-room with my fair cousin upon my arm. As I drew a chair towards the table, a thought struck me that possibly it might only be a due attention to my fair guest if I invited the housekeeper, Mrs. Magra, to favor us with her presence; and accordingly, in an undertone, so as not to be overheard by old Simon, I said,—
“Perhaps, Baby, you’d like to have Mrs. Magra to keep us company?”
“Who’s she?” was the brief answer.
“The housekeeper; a very respectable old matron.”
“Is she funny?”
“Funny! not a bit.”
“Oh, then, never mind her. What made you think of her?”
“Why, I thought, perhaps you’d think—That is people might say—In fact I was doing a little bit proper on your account.”
“Oh, that was it, was it? Thank you for nothing, my dear; Baby Blake can take care of herself. And now just help me to that wing there. Do you know, Cousin Charley, I think you’re an old quiz, and not half as good a fellow as you used to be?”