“Well, Rattleton,” said Mrs. B., drily, “what have you been doing with yourself lately? you have become a perfect stranger. Have you brought us any news? what is doing in cantonments? who is dead and who is wed?”
“I know nothing of buryings or weddings,” said Tom; “they’re grave and melancholy subjects, about which I do not trouble myself.”
“Well, indeed!” retorted Mrs. Brownstout; “I admire that amazingly; we all consider you one of the greatest gossips of the station.”
“Perhaps, mamma,” said Miss Lucinda, archly, “Mr. Rattleton is too much engaged with his own approaching nuptials to think much about those of other people.”
“Oh, that’s true,” said Mrs. B., with mock gravity; “they say you are going to get married; is it true, Rattleton?”
“Oh, nonsense! mere Barrackpore gup and scandal; who could have told you that?”
“Oh, we have had it from the very best authority.”
Tom laughed.
“Well, Mr. Rattleton, when is it to take place?” asked Miss Lucinda, dipping her brush in her pallet, and touching up her drawing with all the nonchalance imaginable. “I do so long to know; and who are to be the bridesmaids? I hope Maria or I shall be admitted to that honour.”
“Oh, yes, when I am married, you shall be the bridesmaid, certainly, the lady consenting; but that event, I take it, is rather remote. What on earth should a sub like me do with a wife, who can hardly take care of himself?”