“Of course I have,” said Flower, hotly. “It’s the dearest wish of my life. I should have come before, only I thought when she didn’t answer my letter that she had given me up.”
“Where ’ave you been, and what’s it all about?” demanded Mrs. Tipping.
“At present,” said Flower, with an appearance of great firmness, “I can’t tell you. I shall tell Matilda the day after we’re married—if she’ll still trust me and marry me—and you shall all know as soon as we think it’s safe.”
“You needn’t say another word, mar,” said Miss Tipping, warningly.
“I’m sure,” said the elder lady, bridling. “Perhaps your uncle would like to try and reason with you.”
Mr. Porson smiled in a sickly fashion, and cleared his throat.
“You see, my dear—” he began.
“Your tie’s all shifted to one side,” said his niece, sternly, “and the stud’s out of your buttonhole. I wish you’d be a little tidier when you come here, uncle; it looks bad for the house.”
“I came away in a hurry to oblige you,” said Mr. Porson. “I don’t think this is a time to talk about button-holes.”
“I thought you were going to say something,” retorted Miss Tipping, scathingly, “and you might as well talk about that as anything else.”