“Ah, yes,” said Sir Gordon, looking at her still very thoughtfully. “To be sure,” he continued, in quite dreamy tones, “I had almost forgotten. Tom Porter wants to marry you.”
“Then Tom Porter must—”
“Tchut! tchut! tchut! woman; don’t talk like that. Make your hay while the sun shines. Good fellow, Tom. Obstinate, but solid, and careful. Come, Bayle.”
“Ah,” he sighed, as they walked slowly down the street.
“Gather your rosebuds while you may,
Old Time is still a-flying.
“You and I have never been rosebud gatherers, Christie Bayle. It will give us the better opportunity for watching those who are. Bayle, old friend, we must look out: there must be no handsome, plausible scoundrel to come and cull that fragrant little bloom—we must not have another sweet young life wrecked—like hers.” He made a backward motion with his head towards the house they had left.
“Heaven forbid!” cried Bayle anxiously; and his countenance was full of wonder and dismay.
“You must look out, sir, look out,” said Sir Gordon, thumping his cane.
“But she is a mere girl yet.”
“Pish! man; tush! man. It is your mere girls who form these fancies. What have you been about?”