"I do not know, I am sure. I do not think it matters much whether he has or not."
"I dare say that there are a good many women—old ones, you know—who would take him, old as he is," says Bobby, with liberality.
"I dare say," I answer. "I do not know. I am not old, but I am not sure that I would not rather marry him than be an old maid."
A pause. Again I laugh—this time a laugh of recollection.
"What a fool you did look last night!" I say with sisterly candor, "when you put your head round the school-room door, and found that you had been witty about him to his face!"
Bobby reddens, and aims a bit of mortar at a round-eyed robin that has perched near us.
"At all events, I did not call him a beast."
"Well, never mind; do not get angry! What did it matter?" say I, comfortingly. "You did not mention his name. How could he tell that he was our benefactor? He did not even know that he was to be; and I begin to have misgivings about it myself."
"I cannot say that I see much sign of his putting his hand into his breeches-pocket," says Bobby, vulgarly.
There is the click of a lifted latch. We both look in the direction whence comes the sound. He of whom we speak is entering the garden by a distant door.