"Mary, I think I should like to marry Phyllis."
Mary Eastmann was not the type of woman to lose herself or betray astonishment. She pushed her spectacles sharply above her eyes, looked at me sternly, and said in a rasping voice.
"John Stanhope, don't be an old fool."
"Whatever I may be, Mary," I answered, much nettled by her tone, "I do not think anybody can properly regard me as a fool. As for the other qualification," I went on complacently, "I am not so old."
"You and Sylvia were the same age, and she would have been forty-eight."
"A man is as old as he feels," I ventured, finding refuge in a proverb.
"That is evasive, and has nothing to do with the question. Beside, what reason have you to believe that Phyllis has the slightest desire to marry you?"
"Frankly, not the slightest reason in the world," I replied with the utmost candor. "That is why I have been so bold as to speak to you on the subject."
"Perhaps you thought I might use my influence to help you along?"
"Quite the contrary, my dear Mary, I assure you. I may not know very much about women"—I was quite humble when separated from my library—"but I do know that nothing is so fatal to a lover's prospects as the encouragement of the loved one's relations. You see that I am perfectly frank."