“She’ll marry somebody, I hope?” said the master sharply.
“O yes she’ll marry, soon enough. Only it’ll be a cleverer man, and a richer man, than young Ilminster.”
“Have you any other pleasant little romance to fling at me?”
“O no. But I know what our dear Gladys is. I know what she is looking out for.”
“When she does marry,” said Mr. Romer, “we shall have to think seriously what is to become of Lacrima. Look here, my dear,”—it was wonderful, the pleasant ejaculatory manner in which this flash of inspiration was thrown out,—“why not marry her to John? She would be just the person for a farmer’s wife.”
Mrs. Romer, to do her justice, showed signs of being a little shocked at this proposal.
“But John,”—she stammered;—“John—is not—exactly—a marrying person, is he?”
“He is—what I wish him to be”; was her husband’s haughty answer.
“Oh well, of course, dear, it’s as you think best. Certainly”—the good woman could not resist this little thrust—“it’s John’s only chance of marrying a lady. For Lacrima is that—with all her faults.”