"Oh, no—I didn't say anything. Do tell us more about the Perkins family," she said with a grand air.
"About the father and mother? Oh, there isn't much to tell. Except that they have managed to produce Dorothy. The father's a painter—a very bad painter. A charming old man. Looks like William de Morgan; big forehead, you know—white hair. They are very poor, but of course that doesn't matter."
Mrs. Walbridge was beginning to feel more comfortable, and shook her head in unqualified assent.
"Of course it doesn't, as long as you—love each other."
"Ah!" the young man murmured, his voice ringing unmistakably true, "I love the girl all right."
"She'll value your constancy, I should think," Griselda drawled, "ridiculous creature that you are."
He gazed at her humbly.
"You're quite right to laugh at me," he returned, "I did make a perfect fool of myself about you, but, after all, I'm not so very old, you know."
"How can you be sure," she asked, trying to look like a dowager, "that you really do love now? I should think that you'd be a little nervous about it."
The music had ceased, and his sister came forward.