“Oh, uncle, absurd! The bouquet for the bride had not come.”
“Pooh! A woman can be married without a bouquet.”
“No, no, uncle! But I sent off a message, and Mr Guest brought it himself.”
“Then he has been again.”
“Uncle! Why, he’s Malcolm Stratton’s best man.”
“He’s the worst man I know. I loathe him.”
“You don’t, uncle.”
“Yes, I do, and I’m not blind. Do you suppose I want to be left to a desolate old age. Isn’t it bad enough to lose Myra without—”
“Oh, uncle!” cried the girl, whose cheeks were crimson, “there isn’t a moment to lose;” and she darted to the door, leaving the admiral chuckling.
“A wicked little pirate! How soon she showed the red flag aloft. Ah, well, it’s nature—nature, and one mustn’t be selfish. Not much chance. I don’t know what we’re born for, unless it’s to be slaves to other people.”