"Most glorious eyes in Christendom," continued my uncle George, "always make me feel so dooced—er—so curst humble—no, humble's not quite the word; what I do mean is—"
"Fatuous, George?" suggested Uncle Jervas a trifle impatiently.
"Unworthy—yes, unworthy and er—altogether dooced, d'ye see—her whole life one of exemplary self-sacrifice and so forth, d'ye see, Jervas—"
"Exactly, George! Julia will never marry, we know, while she has this precious youth to pet and pamper and cherish—"
"Instead of us, Jervas!"
"Us? George, don't be a fool! She couldn't wed us both, man!"
"Why, no!" sighed uncle George. "She'd ha' to be content wi' one of us, to be sure, and that one would be—"
"Myself, George!"
"Aye!" quoth uncle George, sighing more gustily than ever. "Begad, I think it would, Jervas."
"Though, mark me, George, I have sometimes thought she has the preposterous lack of judgment to prefer you."