“To be done? Why, nothing.”
“Oh! but something must be done, Bolter. You ought to speak to Mr Perowne.”
“And be called an idiot for my pains. No, thank you, my dear. In all such delicate matters as these a lady’s hand—I should say, tongue—is the instrument to set matters right. Now, I should say the proper thing would be for a quiet, sensible, clever, middle-aged lady—may I speak of you as a middle-aged lady, my dear—”
“Don’t be stupid, Henry. I’m forty-four, as you well know, and I never pretended to be younger.”
“No, of course not. You fired forty years at me in a platoon when I proposed, like the dear, sensible old darling you are.”
“Tut! Hush! Silence, sir! No more of that, please.”
“All right, my dear. Well, as I was saying, suppose you have a quiet talk to the girl yourself.”
Mrs Bolter knitted her brows and looked very thoughtful.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It might do good, or it might not. I will think about it.”
“And about my going away for three days, my dear.”