“Well—it may do very well when he’s a little older. But don’t take it too seriously, Nina, my dear; it’s only a violent admiration for a pretty face.”
“He hasn’t been proposing to her, or anything ridiculous of that kind?” asked Nina nervously.
“Not that I know of, dear. He must know very well that, situated as he is, he can’t possibly think of marrying—unless, of course, you made it possible for him.”
“Of course, in a way, I want to see him married.”
“Not at that age, dearest. Why, the boy can’t know his own mind.”
“No. Poor Morris! And he is frightfully unbalanced.”
“So’s she,” said Bertha Tregaskis quickly. “Her be a right-down fulish li’l maid, I tells ’er.”
“Oh, you’ve spoken to her?”
“Only laughed at her in a wholesome way, my dear. Neither she nor Frances have a vestige of humour about them—everything is always au grand serieux. That’s one reason why I don’t believe she and Morris would ever really suit one another.”
Nina deftly seized her opportunity.