“Flattery, my dear, base flattery. I’m an old man, and youth belongs to youth.” He peered quizzically at her in his short-sighted fashion. “What chance have I got for your favour against that dashing young hero of the Pill Box? No, you must leave me to my years.”
“But I want to talk to you, Sir Michael,” she said, smiling back. “Can’t I even come inside the gate?”
“Temptress!” he teased. “You’re a witch—but I’m too old and dusty to be vamped even by you.”
But he threw down the trowel, wiped his hands on his trousers, and opened the gate for her. It was not a strain to take the Saint’s advice and treat Lapping as a sort of honorary uncle. His manner invited it. He was one of those rare and lovable neuters, of kindly wisdom and broad human sympathies, who are invariably adopted as honorary uncles by such sweet young things as Patricia. He had never married—perhaps because he was too essentially safe and comfortable and tolerant for any woman to choose him as a partner in such a wild adventure as matrimony.
“And when do we congratulate you?” he asked, pursuing the rôle of his privilege. “There could hardly be a better match—young Templar’s exciting enough to make any maiden heart beat faster.”
It was no less than she could have wished. He saved her the trouble of leading up to the subject.
“I was just going to ask you what you thought of it,” she remarked.
“Then may I first make the conventional felicitations?”
“Not yet. I came to ask your opinion to help me decide.”
“But surely your aunt is the proper person——”