Mr. Chance passed on, and took a seat with one of the superfluous men, for contrary to the rule on most such occasions, the male gender was in excess of the female. I had not expected him to return to Miss Sprig; men always become satiated with such girls, soon or late.
My elderly acquaintance entered upon an animated conversation, that became more and more personal, and finally reached a climax when she leaned over, and said in a semi-whisper: "My dear Miss Leigh, you ought to marry."
I had been told this a number of times; any one would suppose, to listen to some of these women, that I had but to put out my hand, and pluck a man from the nearest bush.
"I don't doubt you will marry some day, but I'm afraid you may not choose wisely"--here she lowered her voice again--"after a man reaches thirty-five he becomes very fixed in his ways, and I don't think it's safe for a maiden lady to try to manage him; it needs some one of more experience."
I knew she had Mr. Chance in mind, and I was so indignant at being warned against a man who had never shown the first symptom of any such folly as addressing me, that the blood mounted to my hair.
Observing this, my elderly companion whispered: "I wasn't thinking of any one, in particular, my dear;" upon which I grew more enraged, and the color in my face deepened until I must have resembled an irate old turkey gobbler--"not of any one in particular, my dear; but on general principles, I shouldn't advise such a match. A widower would be just the thing for you, and there always are widowers, and every year the list grows--death makes inroads, you know."
This idea, this hope of a second crop, as I had passed beyond the first picking, was comforting. I knew perfectly well whom she had in mind for me--a nice fat little widower, about fifty years old, who had been held on the marital spit, until he was done to a turn.