“Well, what do you think of all that talk?” asked he, when his wife sat down, after a rather protracted putting away of various articles in boxes and drawers.
“Oh! I think little of it—just what I have ay thought—that yon is a meddlesome, short-sighted woman. It is a pity her daughter hasna the sense to see it.”
“Oh! I don’t think the little thing meant any harm. But Rosie flared right up, didn’t she?”
“I shouldna wonder but her conscience told her there was some truth in the accusation—about her love of admiration, I mean. But Mrs Arthur is not the one that should throw stones at her for that, I’m thinking.”
“But about Graeme! She will never marry that man, will she?”
“He’ll never ask her,” said Mrs Snow, shortly. “At least I think he never will.”
“Well, I don’t know. It looked a little like it, last night and come to think of it, he talked a little like it, too.”
“He is no’ the man to ask any woman, till he is sure he will not ask in vain. He may, but I dinna think it.”
“Well, perhaps not. Of course, I could see last night, that it was all fixed, their being together. But I thought she stood it pretty well, better than she would if she hadn’t liked it.”
“Hoot, man! She thought nothing about it. Her thoughts were far enough from him, and his likes, and dislikes,” said Mrs Snow, with a sigh.