“I dare say not.”
“I thought you liked him, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, timidly.
“So I do, mamma, as liking goes. There is less to dislike about him than about most men. He is quiet and distingué.” Gwendolen so far spoke with a pouting sort of gravity; but suddenly she recovered some of her mischievousness, and her face broke into a smile as she added—“Indeed he has all the qualities that would make a husband tolerable—battlement, veranda, stable, etc., no grins and no glass in his eye.”
“Do be serious with me for a moment, dear. Am I to understand that you mean to accept him?”
“Oh, pray, mamma, leave me to myself,” said Gwendolen, with a pettish distress in her voice.
And Mrs. Davilow said no more.
When they got home Gwendolen declared that she would not dine. She was tired, and would
