"I am twenty at Christmas time," said the girl, amazed at the question.
"And I am seventeen or very nearly that. Men sometimes marry women
older than themselves, and I don't see why I shouldn't. Oh, Alice,
promise that you will marry me. I never met a girl I liked so much, and
I am sure we should be happy."
"I am sure we should," said the girl, laughing. "You silly boy! what
put such nonsense in your head? I am far too old for you, and though I
like you very much, I don't in the least want to marry you." She seemed
to herself to have got out of a sober world into a sort of Mad
Tea-party, where people behaved like pantaloons and spoke in conundrums.
The boy flushed and his eyes grew cross. "Is it somebody else?" he
asked; at which the girl, with a memory of Mr. Stocks, reflected on the
dreadful monotony of men's ways.
A solution flashed upon his brain. "Are you going to marry Lewie
Haystoun?" he cried in a more cheerful voice. After all, Lewis was his
cousin, and a worthy rival.
Alice grew hotly uncomfortable. "I am not going to marry Mr. Lewis
Haystoun, and I am not going to talk to you any more." And she turned
round with a flaming face to the cool depths of the wood.
"Then it is that fellow Stocks. Oh, Lord!" groaned Arthur, irritated
into bad manners. "You can't mean it, Alice. He's not fit to black
your boots.
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