"Eighteen or nineteen."
"Pretty?"
"Yes, I think so; most people do; but it's all a matter of taste. Come, Squire, judge for yourself. Ride over and take lunch with us any day you like. I may not be in; but her mother will be there, and you can make acquaintance with your son's future wife."
This was going too fast, however; presuming too much on the quietness with which the Squire had been questioning him. Mr. Hamley drew back within his shell, and spoke in a surly manner as he replied,—
"Roger's 'future wife!' He'll be wiser by the time he comes home. Two years among the black folk will have put more sense in him."
"Possible, but not probable, I should say," replied Mr. Gibson. "Black folk are not remarkable for their powers of reasoning, I believe, so that they haven't much chance of altering his opinion by argument, even if they understood each other's language; and certainly if he shares my taste, their peculiarity of complexion will only make him appreciate white skins the more."
"But you said it was no engagement," growled the Squire. "If he thinks better of it, you won't keep him to it, will you?"
"If he wishes to break it off, I shall certainly advise Cynthia to be equally willing, that's all I can say. And I see no reason for discussing the affair further at present. I've told you how matters stand because I promised you I would, if I saw anything of this kind going on. But in the present condition of things, we can neither make nor mar; we can only wait." And he took up his hat to go. But the Squire was discontented.
"Don't go, Gibson. Don't take offence at what I've said, though I'm sure I don't know why you should. What's the girl like in herself?"
"I don't know what you mean," said Mr. Gibson. But he did; only he was vexed, and did not choose to understand.