“Very likely, very likely.”
“I could sit all night and hear her sing.”
“I doubt it,” quoth the man of culture, with a twinkle.
The opening notes rippled on the piano, and Mr. Carmagee lay back in his chair to listen. He was a little monkey of a man, fiery-eyed, wrinkled, with a grieved and husky voice that seemed eternally in a hurry. He knew everybody and everybody’s business, and the secrets his bald pate covered would have trebled the circulation of the Roxton Herald in a week. Porteous Carmagee was godfather to Catherine Murchison’s two children. She was one of the few women, and he had stated it almost as a grievance, who could make him admit the possible advantages of matrimony.
“Bravo, bravo”—and Mr. Carmagee slapped Tom Flemming’s knee. ‘When the swans fly towards the south, and the hills are all aglow.’ I believe in woman bringing luck, my friend.”
“Oh, possibly.”
“Murchison took the right turning. Supposing he had married—”
Mr. Flemming trod on the attorney’s toe.
“Look out, she’s there; people have ears, you know; they’re not chairs.”
Mr. Carmagee nursed a grievance on the instant.