"How do people know I know you?"
"You have n't bragged about it? Is that what you mean? You can be a brute when you try. They do know it, at any rate. Possibly I may have told them. They 'll come to you, to ask about me. I mean from Lady Demesne. She 's in an awful state—she 's so afraid her son 'll marry me."
Littlemore was unable to control a laugh. "I 'm not, if he has n't done it yet."
"He can't make up his mind. He likes me so much, yet he thinks I 'm not a woman to marry." It was positively grotesque, the detachment with which she spoke of herself.
"He must be a poor creature if he won't marry you as you are," Littlemore said.
This was not a very gallant form of speech; but Mrs. Headway let it pass. She only replied, "Well, he wants to be very careful, and so he ought to be!"
"If he asks too many questions, he's not worth marrying."
"I beg your pardon—he 's worth marrying whatever he does—he 's worth marrying for me. And I want to marry him—that 's what I want to do."
"Is he waiting for me, to settle it?"
"He 's waiting for I don't know what—for some one to come and tell him that I 'm the sweetest of the sweet. Then he'll believe it. Some one who has been out there and knows all about me. Of course you 're the man, you 're created on purpose. Don't you remember how I told you in Paris that he
