“Oh, no;” mumble, mumble, mumble, for a long time.
“Did he really? Well, I’m sure I don’t know, I should be sorry to think he was doomed to be unfortunate in so serious an affair; but you know my undying regard for the late Mr. Rose.”
Another long mumble.
“You’re very kind, I’m sure. Mr. Rose always thought more of my happiness than his own”—a little crying—“but the turtle-dove has always been my ideal, ma’am.”
Mumble, mumble.
“No one could have been happier than I. As you say, it is a compliment to matrimony.”
Mumble.
“Oh, you must not repeat such a thing! Mr. Harrison would not like it. He can’t bear to have his affairs spoken about.”
Then there was a change of subject; an inquiry after some poor person, I imagine. I heard Mrs. Rose say: