“No?” I said encouragingly.
“Well, you know what I mean,” he replied. “I mean how you manage—in the way you do, you know; never to—you’ve never—hang it, Butterfield, why don’t you get married?”
“Oh!” I answered, “I see. Of course. I didn’t quite catch the idea at first. Of course. Why don’t I get married.”
“Yes,” he replied, much relieved. “You—you should, you know. It’s the finest thing in the world—being engaged, that is. You’ve no idea, really, Butterfield.”
He seemed quite eager about it. I put my feet comfortably on the fender, and waited for him to expand. He kept his eyes on the fire.
“You know,” he went on slowly, “you’ll feel awfully lonely and all that—soon, that is—when Caroline goes, I mean.”
Matchmaking is never a man’s line; he draws back at the very intimate point he should press home. Arthur did his best. Mrs. Loring had probably been talking to him.
“I shall miss her very much,” I replied, “very much indeed; but to whom do you propose to marry me?”
He seemed rather abashed, and a trifle impatient.
“Don’t be an ass,” he said.