"'Spose not. I say, I wonder what's become of those two young monkeys?"
"Now, you needn't begin to fidget about them. They can't fall into the canal."
"They might lose sight of each other, and go huntin' about."
"Well—suppose they do! It won't hurt you. But they won't lose sight of one another."
"How do you know that?"
"Dave is not a boy now. He is a responsible man of five-and-twenty. I told him not to let her go out of his sight."
"Oh well—I suppose it's all right. You're responsible, you know. You manage these things."
"My dear!—how can you be so ridiculous? See how young she is. Besides, he's known her from childhood."
The story does not take upon itself to interpret any portion whatever of this conversation. It merely records it.
The last speech has to continue on reminiscent lines, apparently suggested by the reference to the childhood of the speaker's daughter; one of the young monkeys, no doubt. "It does seem so strange to think that he was that little boy with the black grubby face that Clo's carriage stopped for in the street. Just eighteen years ago, dear!"