Mary Virginia shook out her white skirts, and patted her black hair into even more distractingly pretty disorder.
"I've got to get back to the office—mean case I'm working on," complained Laurence. "Mary Virginia, walk a little way with me, won't you? Do, child! It will sweeten all my afternoon and make my work easier."
"You haven't grown up a bit—thank goodness!" said Mary Virginia. But she went with him.
The Butterfly Man looked after them speculatively.
"Mrs. Eustis," he remarked, "is an ambitious sort of a lady, isn't she? Thinks in millions for her daughter, expects her to make a great match and all that. Miss Sally Ruth told me she'd heard Mrs. Eustis tried once or twice to pull off a match to suit herself, but Miss Mary Virginia wouldn't stand for it."
"Why, naturally, Mrs. Eustis would like to see the child well settled in life," said I.
"Oh, you don't have to be a Christian all the time," said he calmly. "I know Mrs. Eustis, too. She talked to me for an hour and a half without stopping, one night last week. See here, parson: Inglesby's got a roll that outweighs his record. Suppose he wants to settle down and reform—with a young wife to help him do it—wouldn't it be a real Christian job to lady's-aid him?"
I eyed him askance.
"Now there's Laurence," went on the Butterfly Man, speculatively. "Laurence is making plenty of trouble, but not so much money. No, Mrs. Eustis wouldn't faint at the notion of Inglesby, but she'd keel over like a perfect lady at the bare thought of Laurence."
"I don't see," said I, crossly, "why she should be called upon to faint for either of them. Inglesby's—Inglesby. That makes him impossible. As for the boy, why, he rocked that child in her cradle."