“You mean about the pretty little love-affair?” said Meeks, walking along fanning himself with his hat.
“Yes, she'll be dreadful upset.”
“Upset; why?”
“It beats me to know why. Who ever does know the why of a woman?”
“What in creation is the fellow, anyhow?” said Meeks, with a laugh. “Are all the women going daft over him? He isn't half bad looking, and he's a good sort, but I'm hanged if I can see why he should upset every woman who looks at him. Here we've just escorted that poor Ayres girl home. I declare, her face made me shiver. I was glad there wasn't any pond handy for her. But if you mean to say that your good, sensible old wife—”
“Get out! You know better,” cried Henry, impatiently. “You know Sylvia better than that. She sets a lot by Mr. Allen; I do myself; but, as far as that goes, she'd give her blessing if he'd marry any girl but Rose. That's where the hitch comes in. She doesn't want him to marry her.”
“Thinks he isn't good enough?”
“I don't believe it's that. I don't know what it is. She says she don't want Rose to marry anybody.”
“Good Lord! Sylvia doesn't expect a girl with a face like that, and money to boot, to be an old maid! My only wonder is that she hasn't been snapped up before now.”
“I guess Rose has had chances.”