“I do certainly.”
“Marry her,” said Uncle Paul, giving him a poke with his cane. “Plenty of money. Couldn’t do better.”
“But she could,” replied Geoffrey, laughing. “No, old gentleman, I’m not a marrying man.”
“Or look here,” chuckled the old man, “I can find you a wife. No need though, she’ll fall in love with you herself without asking. Lovely woman, sir. Martha—Martha Pavey. Patty you know, but she’s not plump. He! he! he! Well matured and has a little income of her own. She isn’t above forty-four. Good-looking once. Nice shaped mouth till she set up in it a couple of rows of enamelled tombstones to the memory of so many departed teeth. Looks hard and unkissable now. I laughed at ’em when I saw ’em first. Never forgiven me since, and she always looks at me as if she would bite. Poor thing! Thinks I didn’t detect ’em, and goes about complaining of toothache.”
“Poor woman,” said Geoffrey.
“Poor fool!” snarled the other. “She thinks of nothing else but men.”
“Woman’s nature,” said Geoffrey, “but I suppose it is the privilege of the old to be severe. You are old, you know.”
“Devilish,” said the other. “Ah, boy, when you lean your face on your hand, and can feel your skull easily through your skin, you may take it for granted that you are pretty old.”
“Suppose so,” said Geoffrey. “Going my way? No, I suppose not.”
“How the devil d’you know where I’m going?” cried the old fellow, fiercely. “I am going your way, sir; I am.”