“But what do you mean about being an—”
“Old fool? There, say it if you like. I mean about women—young girls—ladies, you know. They’re very nice.”
“Yes, that they are,” I cried eagerly.
“Yah! stuff! How do you know—a boy like you? No, no—I mean yes, of course, so they are. I’ve been thinking, you know, what might have been, if I’d met with such a lady as that Miss Carr, or our pretty little bird there, thirty or forty years ago. Hah! I should have been a different man. But I never did, my boy, I never did.”
He took a pinch of snuff very thoughtfully here.
“It’s too late now, Grace, too late now. You can’t make winter into summer; and it’s getting to the winter with me now. That’s a very nice little thing downstairs. Has she—has she any—any—”
“Lover, Mr Rowle?”
“Yes.”
“Not now,” I said. “There was one, but it ended unhappily. He was a blackguard,” I said warmly.
“Was he, though?” he said eagerly. “That’s right, Grace, I like to see you have some spirit. Poor little lassie! No father, either.”