“Perhaps I’d care more for them, Philip, if you did not care so much.”
“What!” in astonishment, “why you aren’t—you can’t be jealous of them, Mary?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, looking away from him, “women are queer, even we old ones—perhaps we’re queerest of all!”
“Why, Mary, what nonsense to be jealous of two little girls who regard me in the light of a venerable uncle.”
“I should not call a fine-looking man in the prime of life ‘venerable,’” said his sister resentfully, for she was immensely proud of her distinguished brother. “I am sure it would be very odd if they did not admire you for more reasons than one!”
“It is not a question of their admiring me, Mary, but of my admiring them. And I am not the only one. People are beginning to talk about them aside from Mrs. Lennox. Mary, I want them to marry!”
“Marry!” she exclaimed. “No eligible man would marry girls who cook and deliver boxes at people’s doors and do goodness knows what besides.”
“You are very much mistaken, and while you cling to your absurd opinions I don’t think it is desirable to continue the conversation.” He rose with dignity and passed into his office.
Miss Ware followed him. “Philip,” she queried with feminine curiosity, “had you any one special in mind?”
The Doctor was lost in the depths of the morning paper.