That is what Mr. Stanham murmured. Extraordinary how some men do talk to women nowadays, even to the women whom they love!
"Then, if you do intend to marry me, Mr. Thomas Stanham, you'll be so good as to do so on Thursday morning next, before noon."
Mr. Stanham began to scratch the gravel with his stick.
"And get seven years' penal."
"Stuff! They don't give you penal servitude for marrying wards in Chancery. It's contempt of court."
"Yes, I know. Have to wash out your cell at Holloway, and stand at 'attention,' with your hat off, while the governor cuts you dead."
"Then perhaps you will be so good as to tell me what it is that you do propose to do. Do you imagine that you are the sort of person the Court of Chancery will ever allow to marry me?"
"Haven't so much imagination, my dear Frank."
"Call me Fanny, not Frank! You are not to call me Frank. Then do you suppose that I'm the sort of girl who's willing to wait, and not to marry her sweetheart, until she's twenty-five? because if you suppose anything of that kind we must be perfect strangers."
"It's very good of you, I'm sure."