“I suppose he was afraid Ethel Dunlop would come in.”
“I wish he hadn’t fallen in love with her,” Florence said; “I shall always reproach myself about it. But, really, he was so good and kind that I half hoped she would like him.”
“A woman under thirty doesn’t marry a man merely because he is good and kind, unless matrimony is her profession.”
“I can’t help thinking it might have been different if he had spoken to her,” Florence said; “it is so absurd of a man to write. I wouldn’t have accepted you if you had proposed in a letter.”
“Oh, wouldn’t you?” he laughed; “that was a matter in which you wouldn’t have been allowed to decide for yourself. One must draw the line somewhere. It is all very well to let women do as they like in little things; but in a big one like marrying you, why——”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Florence laughed, putting her hand over his mouth. He kissed it, and jerked back his head.
“I wonder what Fisher said in his letter, Floggie?”
“I should think it was very proper and respectful.”
“The sort of letter a churchwarden or an archbishop would write. Poor chap, I expect he feels a little sore about it. He hadn’t a very good time with his first wife, I fancy. Probably he wanted to make a little sunshine for his sober middle-age. I dare say he would have been awfully good to her if she had taken him.”
“I wish she had, and I wish he would come here again,” Florence said; “he was so very kind about taking the house, and I always liked him.”