“He is my own dear cousin, Wynnette, and I love him dearly as a cousin; but, indeed, I could not marry him to save my soul! And though he is a good boy, I do not think he is a proper match for you,” said Rosemary, one morning, when she had come to spend the day at Mondreer, and the two girls were tête-à-tête in Wynnette’s room, where she had taken her visitor to lay off her bonnet.
“Why not?” curtly demanded Wynnette, who did not like these criticisms upon her lover.
But worse was to come.
“Why not?” echoed Rosemary. “Why, because dear Sam is so rough and ungainly. He has red hair and a freckled face——”
“So has the Duke of Argyll and all the princely Campbells!”
“And he has a club nose!”
“So have I. ‘Pot can’t call kettle black.’”
“And such big hands and feet——”
“So much the better for useful work.”
“But, oh! Wynnette, he—he——”