“We shan't come to no harm,” assured him Miss Sellars.
“P'raps you're right,” agreed Uncle Gutton. “There don't seem to be much of the fiery and untamed about him, so far as I can see.”
“'Slow waters run deep,'” reminded us Aunt Gutton, with a waggish shake of her head.
“No question about the slow,” assented Uncle Gutton. “If you don't like him—” observed Miss Sellars, speaking with dignity.
“To be quite candid with you, my girl, I don't,” answered Uncle Gutton, whose temper, maybe as the result of too much cold pork and whiskey, seemed to have suddenly changed.
“Well, he happens to be good enough for me,” recommenced Miss Sellars.
“I'm sorry to hear a niece of mine say so,” interrupted Uncle Gutton. “If you want my opinion of him—”
“If ever I do I'll call round some time when you're sober and ast you for it,” returned Miss Sellars. “And as for being your niece, you was here when I came, and I don't see very well as how I could have got out of it. You needn't throw that in my teeth.”
The gust was dispersed by the practical remark of brother George to the effect that the last tram for Walworth left the Oval at eleven-thirty; to which he further added the suggestion that the Clapham Road was wide and well adapted to a row.
“There ain't going to be no rows,” replied Uncle Gutton, returning to amiability as suddenly as he had departed from it. “We understand each other, don't we, my girl?”