“What?”
“Sylvester and Ella. Do you mean to say you haven't noticed? I have been following it all for months.”
Miss Lanyon had reached the age when one lives in the romances of others.
“I believe you amuse yourself, Agatha, by mixing up your young friends and sorting them out in pairs, like gloves,” remarked Matthew.
Miss Lanyon denied the charge indignantly. This was quite a different matter. Anybody with eyes could see how things were tending. It was a match. She was sure it was a marriage made in heaven.
“I like heaven-made marriages as little as machine-made boots,” said Matthew. “Both are apt to come undone in unexpected places. But if these two are thinking of a wholesome earth-made union—well, I shall be delighted.”
“But hasn't Syl told you anything?”
“Not a word.”
“Couldn't you ask him, Matthew?”
“My dear Agatha,” said he, drawing himself up, “how can you suggest my committing such an impertinence?”