❦
“Oh, my dear!” cried her mother.
“I hope you have properly considered? He is charming, of course, but—well—he is such a club habitué.”
“What? Well, well!” exclaimed her father. “Bless me, Meg, I had no idea— Give me a kiss, if you have any to spare for your old dad now. Why, of course, I consent, if you care for him. Only tell Mr. Tyler I hear he spends too much time at his clubs.”
“Margaret! How nice!” ejaculated her sister. “I’ve liked him from the start, and hoped—people said he was too fond of his club ever to care to marry, and so I thought—but now it’s all right.”
“I knew he meant biz,” asserted her brother, “the moment he began to keep away from the club, and put in so much time with you.”
“I cannot tell you, my dearest Margaret (if I may call you that?),” wrote his mother, “how happy I am over what my dear boy has just told me. The luxury and ease of club life are now so great that I had almost feared Harry could not be weaned from them. But since he has chosen such a dear, beautiful, and clever girl, my worst anxiety is over.”
“You are indeed to be congratulated, niece,” declared her aunt. “He is a most eligible parti—good looks, position, and wealth. If you can only keep him away from his clubs, I am confident you will be a very happy and domestic couple.”
“I have been certain of it for weeks,” her dearest feminine friend assured her. “There isn’t a man I would rather have had you take, for he is so much at his club that I shall still see something of you.”
“Er, Miss Brewster,” said one of her rejected lovers, “let me offer you my best wishes. At the club we all swear by Harry, and we actually think of going into mourning over the loss. Er, the fellows are laying bets as to whether we shall ever see him there again. The odds are six to one on the club,—but the fellows don’t know you, you know.”