“No,” said George; and then, like the consummate blunderer he was, he fell into the trap. “Why,” he said, “didn’t I see you at Hill Street yesterday?”
“Hill Street!” said Cheriton, with an air of complete innocence. “You might have seen me, but I didn’t see you.”
“You were there, anyhow,” said George, “and so was I.”
“Were you?” said his friend. “Then why the dooce didn’t I see you?”
“I remember now,” said George. “I called round to see Caroline Crewkerne, and you called too, but she thought you had better not come up, as the two of us might prove too much for her.”
“She erred on the side of caution, my dear fellow. Two and twenty like you and me would not prove too much for that old woman.”
“No, I dare say,” said George, with a grunt of approbation. “How is she this morning?”
“Getting stronger by degrees. In my opinion, if that old woman is kept in bed much longer she will wreck the premises.”
“Remarkably vigorous mind for a woman of her age.”
“Her mind, in my humble judgment, is much too vigorous for one of her years,” said Cheriton, with the air of one who imparts a profound truth to an intellectual equal. “In my opinion, Caroline Crewkerne is a rather embarrassing phenomenon. She has the education of a Whig, and the instincts of a Jesuit.”