“She is afraid that Conny likes him.”
“Women often have the queerest tastes,” said I uneasily. Why was I irritated by my aunt’s suspicion?
“Did you notice that my wife rather poo-pooh’d bankers’ clerks?”
“I did.”
“That was done for a motive,” said my uncle with a twinkling eye. “My wife is a shrewd woman. I have no right to be her trumpeter, but I must say that very few women have my wife’s sagacity.”
“Is Mr. Curling a gentleman?”
“I believe so. He is a London man. But he’s no match for my daughter, I can tell you.”
“I should think not,” said I jealously and warmly; “very few men are.”
“However,” continued my uncle, twisting a wine-glass round upon the table, “all this may be a mere delusion on the part of your aunt.” [Your aunt! Do you mark the flattering identification?] “It would certainly never do to appear suspicious. Trifles are easily made significant and important. Curling used to be asked here sometimes, but my wife won’t have him now; and I think she’s right. Eh? What do you think?”
I fully agreed with him; and we then rose to join the ladies.