"Are you really afraid, mother?" asks Cyril, fondly. "What a goose you are about your 'boys'! Are we always to be children in your eyes? Not that I wonder at your horror of widows. Even the immortal Weller shared your sentiments, and warned his 'Samivel' against them. Never mind, mother; console yourself. I for one swear by all that is lovely never to seek this particular 'widder' in marriage."
False oath.
"You see he seems to take it so much for granted, my giving The Cottage and that, I hardly like to refuse."
"It would not be of the least consequence, if it was not situated actually in our own woods, and not two miles from the house. There lies the chief objection," says Lady Chetwoode.
"Yes. Yet what can I do? It is a pretty little place, and it seems a pity to let it sink into decay. This tenant may save it."
"It is a lovely spot. I often fancy, Guy," says his mother, somewhat sadly, "I should like to go and live there myself when you get a wife."
"Why should you say that?" says Guy, almost roughly. "If my taking a wife necessitates your quitting Chetwoode, I shall never burden myself with that luxury."
"You don't follow out the Mater's argument, dear boy," says Cyril, smoothly. "She means that when your sylvan widow claims you as her own she must leave, as of course the same roof could not cover both. But you are eating nothing, mother; Guy's foolish letter has taken away your appetite. Take some of this broiled ham!"
"No, thank you, dear, I don't care for——"
"Don't perjure yourself. You know you have had a positive passion for broiled ham from your cradle up. I remember all about it. I insist on your eating your breakfast, or you will have that beastly headache back again."