“How-!” cried Pierre, in real joyful astonishment, both at the nature of the tidings, and the earnest tones in which they were conveyed—“dear, dear mother, you have strangely changed your mind then, my dear mother.”
“It is even so, dear brother;—before this day month I hope to have a little sister Tartan.”
“You talk very strangely, mother,” rejoined Pierre, quickly. “I suppose, then, I have next to nothing to say in the matter!”
“Next to nothing, Pierre! What indeed could you say to the purpose? what at all have you to do with it, I should like to know? Do you so much as dream, you silly boy, that men ever have the marrying of themselves? Juxtaposition marries men. There is but one match-maker in the world, Pierre, and that is Mrs. Juxtaposition, a most notorious lady!”
“Very peculiar, disenchanting sort of talk, this, under the circumstances, sister Mary,” laying down his fork. “Mrs. Juxtaposition, ah! And in your opinion, mother, does this fine glorious passion only amount to that?”
“Only to that, Pierre; but mark you: according to my creed—though this part of it is a little hazy—Mrs. Juxtaposition moves her pawns only as she herself is moved to so doing by the spirit.”
“Ah! that sets it all right again,” said Pierre, resuming his fork—“my appetite returns. But what was that about my being married so soon?” he added, vainly striving to assume an air of incredulity and unconcern; “you were joking, I suppose; it seems to me, sister, either you or I was but just now wandering in the mind a little, on that subject. Are you really thinking of any such thing? and have you really vanquished your sagacious scruples by yourself, after I had so long and ineffectually sought to do it for you? Well, I am a million times delighted; tell me quick!”
“I will, Pierre. You very well know, that from the first hour you apprised me—or rather, from a period prior to that—from the moment that I, by my own insight, became aware of your love for Lucy, I have always approved it. Lucy is a delicious girl; of honorable descent, a fortune, well-bred, and the very pattern of all that I think amiable and attractive in a girl of seventeen.”
“Well, well, well,” cried Pierre rapidly and impetuously; “we both knew that before.”
“Well, well, well, Pierre,” retorted his mother, mockingly.