“Oh, I don’t say that, but—but more unlikely things have happened.”
“Does he—does he make love to her?” said William, who drew altogether upon the circulating library for his wisdom in those matters.
“He certainly admires her very much; he has been very attentive. I’m sure he likes her, and I can’t hear that he is anything but a straightforward, honourable young man.”
“I suppose he is,” said William; “I’m sure he’s that. And what does Violet—Miss Darkwell—say?”
“Say! Why, of course I can’t ask her to say anything till he speaks. I dare say she likes him, as why should she not? But that’s only conjecture, you know; and you are not to hint it to him, mind, if he should question or poke you on the subject.”
“Oh, no, certainly,” answered William, and there came a long pause. “But indeed, aunt, I don’t think Vane Trevor half good enough for her.”
“Oh! that’s for them, my dear, to settle. There’s nothing in point of prudence, against it.”
“No—oh, no. Everything very well. Lucky fellow to be able to marry when he likes.”
“And—but I forgot you don’t mind. You think there’s nothing in it. Still I may tell you I have had—old Winnie and I—some answers.”
“Table-rapping?” said William.