“Humph!” ejaculated the doctor, making the whiplash whistle about the cob’s ears; “you are not very fond of him, then?”
“Well, no, dear, I can’t say I am. He’s very gentlemanly, and handsome, and particular, but somehow—”
“Ah!” said the doctor, with a dry chuckle, “that’s it—‘somehow.’ That’s the place where I stick. No, old lady, he won’t do. I was a bit afraid at first; but he seems to keep just the same: makes no advances. He wouldn’t do.”
“Oh, dear me, no!” cried Mrs Luttrell, with quite a shudder.
“Why not?” said the doctor sharply; “don’t you like him?”
“Perhaps it would not be just to say so,” said Mrs Luttrell nervously, “but I’m glad Milly does not seem to take to him.”
“So am I. Curate would be far better, eh?”
“And you charge me with match-making, my dear! It is too bad.”
“Ah! well, perhaps it is; but don’t you think—eh?”
“No,” said Mrs Luttrell, “I do not. Millicent is very friendly to Mr Bayle, and looks upon him as a pleasant youth who has similar tastes to her own. And certainly he is very nice and natural.”