“I? No, I couldn’t manage it. I have no tact, and it would sound so confoundedly queer, coming from one man to another. It would be—indelicate. It’s something that nobody but a woman—Why doesn’t she tell him herself?”
“She won’t. She considers it our part, and something we ought to do before he commits himself.”
“Very well, then, Sarah, you must tell him. You can manage it so it won’t by so—queer.
“That is just what I supposed you would say, Mr. Kenton, but I must say I didn’t expect it of you. I think it’s cowardly.”
“Look out, Sarah! I don’t like that word.”
“Oh, I suppose you’re brave enough when it comes to any kind of danger. But when it comes to taking the brunt of anything unpleasant—”
“It isn’t unpleasant—it’s queer.”
“Why do you keep saying that over and over? There’s nothing queer about it. It’s Ellenish but isn’t it right?”
“It’s right, yes, I suppose. But it’s squeamish.”
“I see nothing squeamish about it. But I know you’re determined to leave it to me, and so I shall do it. I don’t believe Mr. Breckon will think it’s queer or squeamish.”