“Possible, but not probable, I should say,” replied Mr. Gibson. “Black folk are not remarkable for their powers of reasoning, I believe; so that they haven’t much chance of altering his opinion by argument, even if they understood each other’s language; and certainly, if he shares my taste, their peculiarity of complexion will only make him appreciate white skins the more.”
“But you said it was no engagement,” growled the Squire. “If he thinks better of it, you won’t keep him to it, will you?”
“If he wishes to break it off, I shall certainly advise Cynthia to be equally willing, that’s all I can say. And I see no reason for discussing the affair further at present. I’ve told you how matters stand because I promised you I would, if I saw anything of this kind going on. But, in the present condition of things, we can neither make nor mar; we can only wait.” And he took up his hat to go. But the Squire was discontented.
“Don’t go, Gibson! Don’t take offence at what I’ve said, though I’m sure I don’t know why you should. What’s the girl like in herself?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Mr. Gibson. But he did; only he was vexed, and did not choose to understand.
“Is she—well, is she like your Molly?—sweet-tempered and sensible—with her gloves always mended, and neat about the feet, and ready to do anything one asks her, just as if doing it was the very thing she liked best in the world?”
Mr. Gibson’s face relaxed now, and he could understand all the Squire’s broken sentences and unexplained meanings.
“She’s much prettier than Molly to begin with, and has very winning ways. She’s always well-dressed and smart-looking, and I know she hasn’t much to spend on her clothes, and always does what she’s asked to do, and is ready enough with her pretty, lively answers. I don’t think I ever saw her out of temper; but then I’m not sure if she takes things keenly to heart, and a certain obtuseness of feeling goes a great way towards a character for good temper, I’ve noticed. Altogether I think Cynthia is one in a hundred.”
The Squire meditated a little. “Your Molly is one in a thousand, to my mind. But then, you see, she comes of no family at all—and I don’t suppose she’ll have a chance of much money.” This he said as if he were thinking aloud, and without reference to Mr. Gibson; but it nettled the latter, and he replied somewhat impatiently—
“Well, but, as there’s no question of Molly in this business, I don’t see the use of bringing her name in, and considering either her family or her fortune.”
“No, to be sure not,” said the Squire, rousing up. “My wits had gone far afield, and I’ll own I was only thinking what a pity it was she wouldn’t do for Osborne. But, of course, it’s out of the question—out of the question.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Gibson, “and if you will excuse me, Squire, I really must go now, and then you’ll be at liberty to send your wits afield uninterrupted.” This time he was at the door, before the Squire called him back. He stood impatiently hitting his top-boots with his riding-whip, waiting for the interminable last words.
“I say, Gibson, we’re old friends, and you’re a fool if you take anything I say as an offence. Madam your wife and I didn’t hit it off, the only time I ever saw her. I won’t say she was silly; but I think one of us was silly, and it wasn’t me. However, we’ll pass that over. Suppose you bring her and this girl Cynthia (which is as outlandish a Christian name as I’d wish to hear), and little Molly, out here to lunch some day—I’m more at my ease in my own house—and I’m more sure to be civil, too. We need say nothing about Roger —neither the lass nor me—and you keep your wife’s tongue quiet, if you can. It will only