‘No doubt she will,’ said the miller; ‘for I have never known thee wanting in sense in a jineral way.’ He turned his cup round on its axis till the handle had travelled a complete circle. ‘How long did you say in your letter that you had known her?’
‘A fortnight.’
‘Not very long.’
‘It don’t sound long, ’tis true; and ’twas really longer—’twas fifteen days and a quarter. But hang it, father, I could see in the twinkling of an eye that the girl would do. I know a woman well enough when I see her—I ought to, indeed, having been so much about the world. Now, for instance, there’s Widow Garland and her daughter. The girl is a nice little thing; but the old woman—O no!’ Bob shook his head.
‘What of her?’ said his father, slightly shifting in his chair.
‘Well, she’s, she’s—I mean, I should never have chose her, you know. She’s of a nice disposition, and young for a widow with a grown-up daughter; but if all the men had been like me she would never have had a husband. I like her in some respects; but she’s a style of beauty I don’t care for.’
‘O, if ’tis only looks you are thinking of,’ said the miller, much relieved, ‘there’s nothing to be said, of course. Though there’s many a duchess worse-looking, if it comes to argument, as you would find, my son,’ he added, with a sense of having been mollified too soon.
The mate’s thoughts were elsewhere by this time.
‘As to my marrying Matilda, thinks I, here’s one of the very genteelest sort, and I may as well do the job at once. So I chose her. She’s a dear girl; there’s nobody like her, search where you will.’
‘How many did you choose her out from?’ inquired his father.