“I often don’t understand your jokes,” said Frances, with a little dignity, “and I suppose this is a joke.”
“And you think it is a joke in doubtful taste? So should I, if I meant it that way, but I don’t. Listen, Fan; I am much of that opinion myself.”
“That a mother—that a lady——? You are always saying horrible things.”
“It is true, though—if it is best that a girl should marry—mind you, I only say if—then it is her mother’s duty. You can’t look out for yourself—at least I am very glad you are not of the kind that do, my little Fan.”
“Markham,” said Frances, with a dignity which seemed to raise her small person a foot at least, “I have never heard such things talked about; and I don’t wish to hear anything more, please. In books,” she added, after a moment’s interval, “it is the gentlemen——”
“Who look out? But that is all changed, my dear. Fellows fall in love—which is quite different—and generally fall in love with the wrong person; but you see I was not supposing that you were likely to do anything so wild as that.”
“I hope not,” cried Frances hurriedly. “However,” she added, after another pause, colouring deeply, but yet looking at him with a certain courageous air, “if there was any question about being—married, which of course there is not—I never heard that there was any other way.”
“Brava, Fan! Come, now, here is the little thing’s own opinion, which is worth a great deal. It would not matter, then, who the man was, so long as that happened, eh? Let us know the premises on either side.”
“You are a great deal older than I am, Markham,” said Frances.
“Granted, my dear—a great deal. And what then? I should be wiser, you mean to say? But so I am, Fan.”