“Did you send me this bouquet, Miss Reed?” asks Bertram in a low tone.
“I—I—that is—I hope you will—that they will—look pretty,” is the murmured response.
“Did Carrie Reed send those flowers to Bertram?” asks Mrs. Martin of her sister, Mrs. Kirwan, in freezing tones.
“Yes; I heard her admit it just now.”
“What a forward minx! I’ve a great mind to tell her so.”
How severe these mothers are when “my son” is approached by youth and beauty! The idea of marriage is a horror.
“And this is Liverpool!” exclaims Bertie, as the good ship steams up the Mersey. “I’m awfully sorry to have been asleep when we were at Queenstown; why didn’t you shake me up, uncle?”
“Because you want all the sleep you can get. You were nearly in for a dose of insomnia, and that would have pretty soon squared your account, my boy.”
“Pshaw! you all made me out worse than I really was.”