"Yes, perfectly. He was one of my swains ever so long ago, before I married my poor dear husband."
Agatha had used the formula of her "poor dear husband" for more than twenty years; so long, in fact, that it was become a mere collocation of words, and had no longer any meaning, certainly no sadness.
"He left a daughter, then a child of four or five. And he made me one of that child's guardians. The other was a Mr. Dyson, who took her and brought her up. He is dead, and the young lady, now nineteen years of age, comes to me."
"But, Lawrence, what on earth are you going to do with a girl of nineteen?"
"I don't know, Agatha. I cannot have her with me in the Albany, can I?"
"Not very well, I think."
"I cannot take a small house in Chester Square, and give evening-parties for my ward and myself, can I?"
"Not very well, Lawrence."
"She is staying with my lawyer, Jagenal; a capital fellow, but his house is hardly the right place for a young lady."
"Lawrence, what will you do? This is a very serious responsibility."