"'Let me see—this is May—about July, I should think.'
"'July, uncle! Spare me—I cannot marry in the dog-days. No, hang it, not July.'
"'Well, William, perhaps, as you must come down once or twice to see the property—Miss Percival, I should say—it may be too soon—suppose we put it off till October.'
"'October—I shall be down at Melton.'
"'Pray, sir, may I then inquire what portion of the year is not, with you, dog-days?'
"'Why, uncle, next April, now—I think that would do.'
"'Next April. Eleven months, and a winter between. Suppose Miss Percival was to take a cold, and die.'
"'I should be excessively obliged to her,' thought William.
"'No! no!' continued Mr Ponsonby: 'there is nothing certain in this world, William.'
"'Well, then, uncle, suppose we arrange it for the first hard frost.'