In response to something he had said, Berty was remarking, with gentle severity, “I should think you would talk this matter over with your mother rather than with me.”
“Well,” Mr. Jimson said, thoughtfully, “it’s queer how you can tell things to strangers, easier than to your mother.”
“I couldn’t,” said Berty, promptly. “If I were thinking of getting married, I’d ask Grandma to advise me. She’s had so much experience. She chose Roger of all Margaretta’s admirers.”
“Did she, now?” said the Mayor, in admiration. “That was a first-class choice.” Then he asked, insinuatingly, “And have you ever consulted her for yourself?”
“Of course not—not yet. It’s too soon.”
“I suppose it is,” said Mr. Jimson, in a disappointed voice, “and, as I said before, I wish you were ten years older.”
“You don’t mean to say that you would think of me for yourself?” asked Berty, in a sudden, joyful voice.
“Yes, I would,” he replied, boldly.
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” said the girl, gaily; “that’s my first proposal, or, rather, I suppose it isn’t a bona fide proposal. It’s just a hint. Still it counts. I’ve really got out into life. Margaretta has always kept me down where gentlemen were concerned. Older sisters have to, you know. I’ll be just dreadfully interested in you after this. Do let me pick you out a wife.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said the Mayor, guardedly.