They went on, slowly, for she liked to talk to Mr. Hammerton. “Father said something like that this morning and it troubled me; why may I not do as I like best? Why should he care to see me married before he dies?”
“Why should he not?”
“Nonsense. I can take good care of myself; beside,” with a mischievous glance into his serious eyes, “I really don’t know whom to marry.”
“Oh, you could easily find some one. If all else fail, come to me, and if I am not too busy I will take you into consideration.”
“Thanks, good friend! But you will always be too busy. What have you to read to me?”
“Something that you will appreciate. I wrote it for you. Stay, sit down, while I read it.”
“I don’t want to. You can read and walk. The mother of Mrs. Hemans could read aloud while walking up hill.”
Mr. Hammerton’s voice was not pleasant to a stranger, but Tessa liked it because it belonged to him; it was a part of him like his big nose, his spectacles, and the tiny bald spot over which, every day, he carefully brushed his hair. The color in his cheeks was as pretty as a girl’s, and so was the delicate whiteness of his forehead; the bushy mustache, however, made amends for the complexion that he sometimes regretted; Tessa had once told him that his big nose, his mustache, and his awkwardness were all that kept him from being as pretty as his sister.
“I am not the mother of Mrs. Hemans.” He took a sheet of paper from his pocket-book, and showed her the poem written in his peculiarly plain, upright hand.
“Excuse my singing and I will read. You must not think of any thing else.”