"Whew! What's up? You haven't quarrelled already? Or won't the governor give his consent?"
"No," said Dartmouth, "that's not it."
"Then what the devil is the matter? Is—is she dead?"
"No."
"Was she married to some other man before?"
"No!"
"I beg your pardon; I was merely exhausting the field of conjecture.
Will you kindly enlighten me?"
"If I did, you would say I was a lunatic."
"I have been inclined to say so occasionally before—"
"Becky, Weir Penrhyn is my—" And then he stopped. The ludicrous side of the matter had never appealed to him, but he was none the less conscious of how ridiculous the thing would appear to another.