“Tom,” reproved Aunt Mary, gently, “you oughtn't to say such things.”
This time there was no doubt about Peter's blush. He fairly burned. Honora looked at him and laughed.
“Peter is meant for an old bachelor,” she said.
“If he remains a bachelor,” said Uncle Tom, “he'll be the greatest waste of good material I know of. And if you succeed in getting him, Honora, you'll be the luckiest young woman of my acquaintance.”
“Tom,” said Aunt Mary, “it was all very well to talk that way when Honora was a child. But now—she may not wish to marry Peter. And Peter may not wish to marry her.”
Even Peter joined in the laughter at this literal and characteristic statement of the case.
“It's more than likely,” said Honora, wickedly. “He hasn't kissed me for two years.”
“Why, Peter,” said Uncle Tom, “you act as though it were warm to-night. It was only seventy when we came in to dinner.”
“Take me out to the park,” commanded Honora.
“Tom,” said Aunt Mary, as she stood on the step and watched them cross the street, “I wish the child would marry him. Not now, of course,” she added hastily,—a little frightened by her own admission, “but later. Sometimes I worry over her future. She needs a strong and sensible man. I don't understand Honora. I never did. I always told you so. Sometimes I think she may be capable of doing something foolish like—like Randolph.”