"Thank you, old chap,—I mean to."
"I'd rather you took her than Mr. Cassilis, an'—why there he is!"
"Who?"
"Mr. Cassilis. An' he's stopped, an' he's twisting his mestache."
Mr. Cassilis, who had been crossing the paddock, had indeed stopped, and was twisting his black moustache, as if he were hesitating between two courses. Finally, he pushed open the gate, and, approaching Bellew, saluted him with that supercilious air which Miss Priscilla always declared she found so "trying."
"Ah, Mr. Bellew! what might it be this morning,—the pitchfork—the scythe, or the plough?" he enquired.
"Neither, sir,—this morning it is—matrimony!"
"Eh!—I beg your pardon,—matrimony?"
"With a large M, sir," nodded Bellew, "marriage, sir,—wedlock; my nephew and I are discussing it in its aspects philosophical, sociological, and—"
"That is surely rather a—peculiar subject to discuss with a child, Mr.
Bellew—"