“Sixteen next birthday,” I said to myself.
“What are you talking about?”
“Used to drop him notes from her bedroom window,” I mused.
“Oh, do shake him, Arthur.”
Arthur shook me. I looked severely at them both.
“I suppose you know what you’ve done,” I said, “you and your magic-lantern?”
They commenced a look of innocence, but I quelled them.
“If there is an elopement at your house shortly, Bassishaw,” I said, “you can thank this children’s party. Don’t pretend you didn’t see them.”
“I’m afraid, Butterfield, do you know, that they are mischievous young beggars,” replied Bassishaw; “but it’s not our fault.”
“Not your fault!” I said, with rather a touch of scorn, I think, in my voice; “not your fault! You bring overcharged adolescence together—you know the moral laxity of sixteen—you know the latent depravity of female sixteen especially—you provide them with a handy magic-lantern and every convenience—and it’s not your fault! Well, I did my best to dissuade you; you have only yourselves to thank. I wash my hands of all consequences. Don’t blame me.”