“I do not see it,” said the Resident, gravely. “She is a very sweet, true-hearted, handsome womanly girl. Let me see: she is past one and twenty now, and has always displayed a great liking for natural history.”
“Yes, of course,” said Murray, hurriedly. “The collection of butterflies and beetles she showed me is most creditable.”
“And it is only natural that, situated as she is, a prisoner in these wilds, she should be much attracted by the companionship of a gentleman of similar tastes, and of wide experience and knowledge.”
“Oh, nonsense, nonsense!” said Murray, fidgeting. “She has been very patient and kind of an evening in listening to me, though I am afraid I have often bored her terribly with my long-winded twaddle about ornithology and botany.”
“I can vouch for it you have not, and also that you have caused great disappointment when you have not come and joined us.”
“Oh, fancy, my dear sir,” said Murray, tugging at his great brown beard, and colouring like a girl; “your imagination.”
“It is her father’s, her mother’s, the Greigs’ and my wife’s imagination too; and this experiment of hers—commenced directly after you had been telling us all how difficult you found it with your big fingers to manipulate the tiny sun-birds—confirms what we thought.”
“My dear sir, what nonsense!” cried Murray, sweeping a bird-skin off the table in his confusion, as he snatched up his pipe, lit it, and began to smoke. “I talked like that because I wanted that idle young scamp, Ned, to devote his fingers to the task. I had not the most remote idea that it would make a young lady commence such an uncongenial pursuit.”
“Straws show which way the wind blows.”
“Look here, sir,” cried Murray, jumping up, and making the bamboo floor creak as he strode up and down. “I am not such a fool or so blind as not to comprehend what you mean. Miss Amy Barnes is a very sweet, amiable young lady.”