“Well, he did, mother, and he used that favourite word of his before it. You know,” said the youth, with a grin.
“Claud, my dear, you shouldn’t.”
“I didn’t, mother; it was the dad. I never do use it except in the stables or to the dogs.”
“Claud, my boy, be serious. Yes, I did say so, but you had made me very angry, and—er—I spoke for your good.”
“Yes, I’m sure he did, my dear,” said Mrs Wilton.
“Oh, all right, then, so long as he didn’t mean it. Well, then, to cut it short, you both want me to marry Kate?”
“Exactly.”
“Not much of a catch. Talk about a man’s wife being a clinging vine; she’ll be a regular weeping willow.”
“Ha! ha! very good, my boy,” said Wilton, senior; “but no fear of that. Poor girl, look at her losses.”
“But she keeps going on getting into deeper misery. Look at her.”