At this Cosimo’s gravity had become profounder and funnier still.
“You don’t mean....”
Amory had clapped her hands.
“I do! Didn’t you see it in auntie’s eyes?... Cosimo, dear, you’re approved of—quite an eligible young man!—So that makes Mrs. ’Ill (one), Jellies (two), Dorothy (three), aunt and uncle (five), and the plumber and the chimney-sweep (seven)—seven of these dear, quaint, obsolete souls....”
“All trying to marry you and me, Amory?”
“Yes, Cosimo.”
“And I shall be asked to the wedding as—er—one of the family?”
“Quite, if I know anything about auntie.”
“Then,” said Cosimo, in a deep voice, “I can only say that I shall come.”
“Oh, do!” Amory broke out. She clutched his arm. “And I’ll make a bet with you, Cosimo! Our great pandjandrum will be there—‘Mr. Wellcome Himself,’ they call him, with a capital ‘h,’ almost like God—and I’ll bet you anything you like he says, ‘May all your troubles be little ones!’”