I laugh.  “That is so probable, is not it?  I am so likely to fall in with a rich young man of weak intellect who is willing to marry all the whole six of us, for that is what he would have to do, and so I should explain to him.”

Sir Roger is looking at me again with an odd smile—­not disagreeable in any way—­not at all hold-cheap, or as if he were sneering at me for a simpleton, but merely odd.

“And you think,” he says, “that when he hears what is expected of him he will withdraw?”

Again I laugh heartily and rather loudly, for the idea tickles me, and, in a large family, one gets into the habit of raising one’s voice, else one is not heard.

“I am so sadly sure that he will never come forward, that I have never taken the trouble to speculate as to whether, if he did, my greediness would make him retire again.”

No answer.

“Now that I come to think of it, though,” continue I, after a pause, “I have no manner of doubt that he would.”

Apparently Sir Roger is tired of the subject of my future prospects, for he drops it.  We have left the kitchen-garden—­have passed through the flower-garden—­have reached the hall-door.  I am irresolutely walking up the stone steps that mount to it, not being able to make up my mind as to whether or no I should make some sort of farewell observation to my companion, when his voice follows me.  It seems to me to have a dissuasive inflection.

“Are you going in?”

“Well, yes,” I answer uncertainly, “I suppose so.”

He looks at his watch.

“It is quite early yet—­not near luncheon-time—­would it bore you very much to take a turn in the park?  I think” (with a smile) “that you are quite honest enough to say so if it would:  or, if you did not, I should read it on your face.”

“Would you?” say I, a little piqued.  “I do not think you would:  I assure you that my face can tell stories, at a pinch, as well as its neighbor.”

“Well, would it bore you?”

“Not at all! not at all!” reply I briskly, beginning to descend again; “but one thing is very certain, and that is that it will bore you”

“Why should it?”

“If I say what I was going to say you will think that it is on purpose to be contradicted,” I answer, unlatching the gate in the fence, and entering the park.

“And if I do, much you will mind,” he answers, smiling.

“Well, then,” say I, candidly, looking down at my feet as they trip quickly along through the limp winter grass, “there is no use blinking the fact that I have no conversation—­none of us have.  We can gabble away among ourselves like a lot of young rooks, about all sorts of silly home jokes, that nobody but us would see any fun in; but when it comes to real talk—­”

I pause expressively.

“I do not care for real talk,” he says, looking amused; “I like gabble far, far better.  I wish you would gabble a little now.”