“Oh, I never felt anything of that kind, uncle, and I rarely write letters if I can help it.”
“Then you can’t be in love,” said the major triumphantly.
“But were you really in love, uncle, with Lady Mary—Mary—”
“Callaghan, my dear. Yes.”
“But you did not marry her, uncle.”
“N-no—no; you are quite right, my dear, I did not. Circumstances occurred and—er—we were not married. But really, Glynne, my dear, you are a most extraordinary girl.”
“I am very sorry.”
“Don’t say that, my dear; but—er—I—er—this is a very serious thing, this promising yourself in marriage, and I—er—I—er—should like you to be perfectly sure that you are doing wisely. I think a great deal of you, my dear—old bachelor as I am, and it would trouble me more than I can say if you did not make a happy match.”
“Dear uncle,” she said tenderly, as she clasped her hands upon his arm, and clung to him more closely. “But you need not be afraid, for Robert says he loves me very dearly, and what more could a woman desire?”
“Humph! No, of course not, my dear,” said the major, looking more perplexed than ever, as he gazed down into the unruffled face by his side. “Untouched, if I know anything of womankind,” he said to himself, “but if I attempt to interfere I shall be making trouble, and upset Jack as well. What the devil shall I do?”