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"
"What would you like to say?"
"Well, I would like to say that if a man is so more than commonly a fine
man, that it's just a pleasure to set one's eyes on him, and if he's
well endowed with this world's gear, it's a strange thing if there is no
excellent, desirable, and altogether sweet young woman ready, and even
sighing, for him."
"Humph!" said John.
"I don't say there is," proceeded Miss Christie; "far be it from me."
"I hate red hair," answered the attractive widower.
"It's just like a golden oriole. It isn't red at all," replied Miss
Christie dogmatically.
"_I_ call it red," said John Mortimer.
"The painters consider it the finest colour possible," continued the
absent lady's champion.
"Then let them paint her," said John; "but--I shall not marry her;
besides," he chose to say, "I know if I asked her she would not have me:
therefore, as I don't mean to ask her, I shall not be such an unmannerly
dog as to discuss her, further than to say that I do not wish to marry a
woman who takes such a deep and sincere interest in herself.


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