Mr. Gibson winced. Jeannie was his first love; but her name had never been breathed in Hollingford. His wife—good, pretty, sensible, and beloved as she had been—was not his second; no, nor his third love. And now he was come to make a confidence about his second marriage.
"Well, well," said he; "at any rate, I thought I must do something to protect Molly from such affairs while she was so young, and before I had given my sanction. Miss Eyre's little nephew fell ill of scarlet fever—"
"Ah! by-the-by, how careless of me not to inquire. How is the poor little fellow?"
"Worse—better. It doesn't signify to what I've got to say now; the fact was, Miss Eyre couldn't come back to my house for some time, and I cannot leave Molly altogether at Hamley."
"Ah! I see now, why there was that sudden visit to Hamley. Upon my word, it's quite a romance."
"I do like hearing of a love-affair," murmured Miss Phœbe.
"Then if you'll let me get on with my story, you shall hear of mine," said Mr. Gibson, quite beyond his patience with their constant interruptions.
"Yours!" said Miss Phœbe, faintly.
"Bless us and save us!" said Miss Browning, with less sentiment in her tone; "what next?"
"My marriage, I hope," said Mr. Gibson, choosing to take her expression of intense surprise literally. "And that's what I came to speak to you about."