“One would think,” mused Mary, “that he was already an accepted son-in-law.”
“A case of nubbin,” chirped Alice (a phrase I leave as a kind of sample bone of contention to the philologists of your day, my boy). She was leaning on Charley’s arm, and raised her eyes inquiringly. “Somehow, though,” added she, interpreting his silence as dissent, “somehow, I don’t altogether believe so.”
No reply.
She looked up again, and detected a faintly rippling smile struggling with the lines of his well-schooled features. He had heard her, then,—and half amused, half indignant, she gave his arm so sudden and vigorous a pull as visibly to disturb his balance.
“Why don’t you answer people?” said she, a little testily.
“You would not have a man hasty? Is it not best to treat people’s remarks as a hunter does wild ducks? Save your ammunition. Don’t fire at the first that comes; wait till you can bring down three or four at a shot. Besides, it is rude.”
“Rude?”
“Yes, to interrupt the current of people’s observations.”
“Well, you must interrupt the current of mine when I speak to you.”
“The tr-tr-tr-ouble is I’d rather hear you talk than talk myself.”