SHE’S coming next month, Charlie,” said Mrs. Durham, looking up from a letter.
“Who is it now. Auntie, another divinity with which you are going to overwhelm me?” asked Gaston smiling as he laid his book down and leaned back in his chair.
“Some one I’ve been telling you about for the last month.”
“Which one?”
“Oh, you wretch! You don’t think about anything except your books. I’ve been dinning that girl’s praises into your ears for fully five weeks, and you look at me in that innocent way and ask which one?”
“Honestly, Aunt Margaret, you’re always telling me about some beautiful girl, I get them mixed. And then when I see them, they don’t come up to the advance notices you’ve sent out. To tell you the truth, you are such a beautiful woman, and I’ve got so used to your standard, the girls can’t measure up to it.”
“You flatterer. A woman of forty-two a standard of beauty! Well, it’s sweet to hear you say it, you handsome young rascal.”
“It’s the honest truth. You are one of the women who never show the addition of a year. You have spoiled my eyesight for ordinary girls.”
“Hush, sir, you don’t dare to talk to any girl like you talk to me. They all say you’re afraid of them.”
“Well, I am, in a sense. I’ve been disappointed so many times.”