“Well, why not? He has no pride in him, not a bit. And if he wants gentlemen to meet, why, there’s Paulby and Vinnicombe. Hang it all, my girl, if I liked to set up for a gentleman I dare say I could, after you had toned me down and mended my manners, and oiled my axles with grammar grease, eh?”
“Oh, no, no, uncle; don’t think of it,” she said, imploringly.
“Just as you like, my dear; ’tis your party like, and it’s for you to choose. He is a bit cocky and priggish, and a bit gallant, but my darling knows how to keep him in his place.”
“Oh, yes, uncle, of course,” said Sage, hastily; “but Rue will be here, you know, and it might set her thinking of his brother Frank.”
“Hah! Yes; I had forgotten that,” said the Churchwarden, thoughtfully. “To be sure! she did think a little about him, didn’t she? Hullo!”
“I want Sage,” cried Mrs Portlock down the stairs.
“Yes, aunt, dear.”
“Hold that wrapper to the fire, my dear, ready for your uncle,” and she threw down a great white cashmere belcher to her niece.
“Here! Hoi! I say, old girl, I’m not going to wear that thing.”
“Yes, dear, it’s a very long drive, and the air is very cold.”