"Very distinguished-looking, with all that wavy grey hair," pronounced Mrs. O'Neill, after the first visit paid her by the prospective son-in-law whom Patricia had so bewilderingly tumbled out of the clouds; "but—Pat darling—he's almost old enough to be my husband."
"I shall take the utmost care that he is not," retorted Pat, sitting on the sofa-end, and puffing at her cigarette; "forgive me for mentioning that you've already had two of these necessary aids to comfort."
"And not an especially good match, is he?"
"Rotten bad!" her step-daughter assented sunnily; "reader to a firm of publishers, at two-fifty per annum or thereabouts. Excellent dad, to have left each of us girls two hundred a year when we marry."
"But with your fascination, Pat—I hate to make you conceited, but Dr. Andrews was saying only the other day that you were a ripe young Amazon."
"Indecent old satyr! Believe me, mother, I've considered my prospects mathematically. I put it to you: two-thirds of the men I meet are smaller than myself. No man can do with a girl who overtops him. Rule them out. Of the remaining one-third, two-thirds again have a preference for slender little clinging maidens. Which reduces my chances to one-third of one-third of the entire male population."
"Even that allowance might be enough for you," remarked Mrs. O'Neill, who was not devoid of gentle humour.
"Oh well," with a gurgle of laughter, "leave it at Gareth."
"I certainly was favourably impressed by the way he holds open the door for one."
"The lamb!" Patricia whispered to her cigarette.