"Married!" he exclaimed. "Why, my lad—goodness be on us, you're naught but a youngster yet!"
"I'm twenty-six, uncle," said Young Martin.
"Twenty-six! Nay, nay—God bless my soul, well, I suppose you are. Time goes on so fast. Twenty-six! Aye, of course," said Old Martin. "Aye, you must be, my lad. Well, but who's the girl?"
Young Martin became more diffident than ever. It seemed an age to him before he could find his tongue. But at last he blurted the name out, all in a jerk.
"Lavinia Sutton!"
Martin Nelthorp dropped his pipe and his paper. He clutched the back of his elbow-chair and stared at his nephew as he might have stared at a ghost. When he spoke his own voice seemed to him to be a long, long way off.
"Lavinia Sutton?" he said hoarsely. "What—Sutton of the mill?"
"Yes," answered Young Martin. Then he added in a firm voice: "She's a good girl, Uncle Martin, and we love each other true."
Old Martin made no immediate answer. He was more taken aback, more acutely distressed, than his nephew knew. To cover his confusion he got up from his chair and busied himself in mixing a glass of toddy. A minute or two passed before he spoke; when he did speak his voice was not as steady as usual.
"He's a poor man, is Sutton, my lad," he said.