“Mine is a more natural affection. I love you in a reasonable, matrimonial way. Not only for your gray hairs”—Jacóbus winced—“but also for the comforts of our mutual entente. So we shall order two nice new dresses and depart on Tuesday morning.”
“Your aunt was a better woman than you, Harriet.”
“She was not my aunt; don’t call her so. Of course she was much better than I. Had she not been, you would have been a better man.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mynheer Mopius, helplessly, “but I am not going to the Horst.”
“Don’t want to see wheels go round,” quoted Harriet, whose course of novel-reading in all languages was very extensive, “but you will, though.”
She went over to her writing-table and carefully indited a little note. Jacóbus sat watching her nervously. She closed her envelope and got up without speaking.
“Written to Ursula?” asked her apprehensive lord.
“Oh dear, no; there’s time enough for that. It’s a note to Madame Javardy,” and she rang the bell. “Take this at once,” she said to the servant.
Mynheer Mopius rose on his spindle legs, protuberant and goggling.