think you a little too old for her," she said in a tone of entire agreement with him.
"And also that I've got one too few eyes, and in fact several other criticisms."
His sister shrugged her shoulders.
"A girl of that age might think those things," she admitted, "but it seems to me that the criticism ought to be on the other side. Who is she?"
Ned looked at her and she broke into a laugh.
"Well," she said, "I suppose we both have a pretty good idea. She's somebody's something—Alfred Cromarty's, I believe; though of course her mother may have fibbed, for she doesn't look much like the Cromartys. Anyhow that pretty well puts her out of the question."
"Why?"
"If you were a mere nobody, it mightn't make so much difference, but your wife must have some sort of a family behind her. One needn't be a snob to think that one mother and a guess at the father is hardly enough!"
"After all, that's up to me. I wouldn't be wanting to marry her great-mothers, even if she had any."
She shrugged her shoulders again.
"My dear Ned, I'm no prude, but there's always some devilment in the blood in these cases."
"Rot!" said he.
"Well, rot if you like, but I know more than one instance."
