“I have just thought of it—oh! such a great thing!”
“What is it, dear?”
“I wish you and Lady would get married.”
“Good heavens!” muttered the young man under his breath, and he turned quickly and looked out of the window to conceal the agitation of his face.
“Everybody who is possessed of common sense gets married, you know. And Lady is possessed of more common sense than anybody I ever saw in this world,” continued Owlet, paying, in her own estimation, the highest possible tribute to the character of her benefactress. “But, you see, there’s nobody down there for her to marry. There’s only old Dr. Keech, who pulls people’s teeth out and gives them nasty physic, and who I do not think is possessed of common sense. And there’s old Mr. Shaw, who preaches such long sermons he almost makes me gape the top of my head off; and there’s Lawyer Merritt, who is good for nothing, ’cept when he is Santa Claus. And, yes, there’s old, old, old Grandfather Toomie, but he has got one wife already, and I don’t think she’d like him to marry Lady. There, Mr. William! Them’s all the men Lady has to choose from to marry, unless it’s you, you know, and if you are possessed of common sense you will marry Lady.”
“But, my dear, I am not possessed of common sense,” said Harcourt in a serio-comic tone.
“There, now!” exclaimed Owlet, dropping a piece of pie she was conveying to her mouth. “I always thought so myself! I did, indeed! Though, mind you, I never said so. You said it, not me. I wouldn’t like to, when you were so good to me; but it’s too true!” she added, with a profound sigh.
“Yes, dear, it is too true,” Harcourt confessed.
“Well, never mind. Maybe you was born so, and can’t help it. But I tell you what you do. You marry Lady—Lady has got enough for both of you. She’s got more than anybody I know. Marry Lady! You know very well that you ought to marry. Everybody ought to marry. I am going to be married myself.”
“Oh, indeed!”