"How!" says I, "will you turn a daughter into a wife?"
"'Tis infamous," says the widow. "'Tis shocking to the ordinances of religion."
"Not so fast," said I. "She's no daughter to me yet, nor perhaps will be," for I was weary of her hints and innuendoes, the meaning of which was apparent.
"Oh, maybe he can find room for you both," says the grocer, with his fat laugh.
"Though 'tis my only niece," says the vintner, pursuing his theme, as if none had spoken, "I will spare her to so worthy a gentleman. I have known her since she was a chit so high—my own sister's child!" and he began to weep maudlin tears that came of the drink.
"I'm sure," says the widow, "that the gentleman will be well rid of such an ungrateful baggage, and 'tis an insult to use him so. He does not want a silly slip like that, either to daughter or wife, undutiful as she would be, and extravagant in her habit. What would suit you, sir," she says, turning on me, "would be a staid comely wife near to your own age, with a knowledge of haberdashery, and some money to—"
"Will you be quiet," says I to her, savagely.
"He's got his eye on the young 'un; he's marked her," says the fat grocer, dipping his nose in the wine, "I knew it all along. There's mighty little chance to deceive me. I know these dogs. Why, directly he came in I saw a look on him when he eyed her that—"
"Look here, I have warned you once," says I, infuriated, and I gave him a blow under his fat chin that sent him sprawling over the next chair to the floor. At that the widow screamed out and cries,—
"Murder! murder!"