“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?”
“That's all right, uncle. I know what you mean,” returned Miss Sellars, with equal handsomeness.
“Bring him round again when he's feeling better,” added Uncle Gutton, “and we'll have another look at him.”
“What you want,” advised the watery-eyed young man on shaking hands with me, “is complete rest and a tombstone.”
I wished at the time I could have followed his prescription.
The maternal Sellars waddled after us into the passage, which she completely blocked. She told me she was delight-ted to have met me, and that she was always at home on Sundays.