“I certainly hope so.”
“Look here, Letitia,” with sudden suspicion, “you aren't planning some ridiculous sentimental nonsense for that child, are you? You're not trying to make a match for her, I hope?”
“Match? What are you talking about? If you mean am I trying to get her married to some MAN,” with a scornful emphasis on the word, “I most certainly am not.
“Humph! Well, if she ever is married, I presume it will be to a man, or an imitation of one. All right, Letitia. I am glad your great idea isn't that, whatever it is.”
“It is not. You know my opinion of marriage, Emily Wyeth. And, so far as matchmaking is concerned, I should say you were a more likely subject for suspicion. That young relative of yours, Sam Keith, appears to be coming here a great deal of late. He MAY come solely to see you, but I doubt it.”
Mrs. Wyeth smiled grimly.
“Samuel has been rather prevalent recently,” she admitted, “but don't let that trouble you, Letitia. I have had my eye on the young man. Samuel is as susceptible to pretty girls as children are to the measles. And his attacks remind me of the measles as much as anything, sudden outbreak, high fever and delirium, then a general cooling off and a rapid recovery. This seizure isn't alarming and there is absolutely no danger of contagion. Mary doesn't take him seriously at all.”
“And how about that other young man?—Smith, I think his name is. He has called here twice since Christmas.”
Mrs. Wyeth seemed to be losing patience.
“Well, what of it?” she demanded.