Tramlay looked inquiringly; his wife appeared embarrassed, and averted her eyes.
“Oh! You mean Marge, I suppose? Well, if Lu should really want him, I wouldn’t like to make her unhappy by saying no. But really, my dear,”—here the merchant put his arm around his wife,—“really, now, don’t you think that a man who was a beau of yours a quarter of a century ago is rather mature to be the husband of an impulsive girl?”
“Young wives can’t live on impulse alone,” said Mrs. Tramlay. “Mr. Marge has means.”
“Not to any great extent, that any one has been able to discover,” interrupted the merchant.
“And he has social position, which is of more importance in New York than anything else,” continued the wife. “He knows many prominent people whom we do not, and if he were to marry Lucia it would improve Margie’s opportunities. We haven’t gone into society as much as we should, and I’m afraid our daughters will have to suffer for it.”
“Don’t trouble your head with any such fears,” said the husband, with more than his usual earnestness. “Girls like ours—bless them!—aren’t going to make bad matches.”
“Besides,” said Mrs. Tramlay, retracing her thoughts, “Mr. Marge doesn’t look the least bit old: he is not the kind of man to grow old. I can’t see that he appears a day older than he did years ago.”
“Bless your sentimental heart!” said the merchant. “He doesn’t, eh? Well, it does you credit to think so, and it doesn’t make me jealous in the least.”
“If the Company succeeds,” continued Mrs. Tramlay, “Mr. Marge will be as much the gainer as you or young Hayn, won’t he?”
“Certainly.”