And then the old gentleman began to laugh,—a deep half-suppressed laugh of thorough enjoyment,—a laugh that shook his shoulders and wrinkled up his eyes in all sorts of curious deep furrows.
“May and December!” he chuckled. “Or December and May! She might as well take old Durham and have done with it!”
The Philosopher maintained equanimity. He smiled,—and as people often noticed, there was something very attractive in his smile,—a flash of youth and humour.
“I think,” he said, mildly, “you would find Sylvia likely to prefer me to old Durham. I think so!—of course I cannot be sure!”
Dr. Maynard lifted himself in his chair, gripping its sides with both hands, and surveyed his friend and literary coadjutor for a couple of minutes in silence.
“Now look here, Craig,” he said. “You don’t mean to insinuate that my little girl is in love with you? Why, man, she couldn’t be such a fool!”
The Philosopher winced, and Maynard went on rather heatedly.
“She’s a clever child and would make a good wife for a clever man, but you’re too clever! Too obstinate—too ‘set’ in your own way—and you’re too old to change your habits. You’re a splendid scholar, but you’re deep in the ruts of learning—no wife could ever pull you out! You’ve no sentiment—and Sylvia is all sentiment from head to heels!—full of fancies and romantic notions. You’d have to be young to understand her—and I don’t believe you ever were young!”
“Thank you!” murmured the Philosopher. “Let us drop the subject! I spoke in a friendly desire to ease your mind of a possible anxiety as to your daughter’s future,—with me as a husband and protector she would be safely guarded—”
“And happy?” There was a slight tremor in Maynard’s voice as he put the question. “Would she be happy?”