supposed; Omer and Joram can run their pen through what remains; and she’s free when you wish. If she likes to make any little arrangement, afterwards, in the way of doing any little thing for us at home, very well. If she don’t, very well still. We’re no losers, anyhow.’ For—don’t you see,” said Mr. Omer, touching me with his pipe, “it ain’t likely that a man so short of breath as myself, and a grandfather too, would go and strain points with a little bit of a blue-eyed blossom, like her ?”
“Not at all, I am certain,” said I.
“Not at all! You’re right!” said Mr. Omer. “Well, sir, her cousin—you know it’s a cousin she’s going to be married to?”
“Oh yes,” I replied. “I know him well.”
“Of course you do,” said Mr. Omer. “Well, sir! Her cousin being, as it appears, in good work, and well to do, thanked me in a very manly sort of manner for this (conducting himself altogether, I must say, in a way that gives me a high opinion of him), and went and took as comfortable a little house as you or I could wish to clap eyes on. That little house is now furnished right through, as neat and complete as a doll’s parlour; and but for Barkis’s illness having taken this bad turn, poor fellow, they would have been man and wife—I dare say, by this time. As it is, there’s a postponement.”
“And Emily, Mr. Omer?” I inquired. “Has she become more settled?”
“Why that, you know,” he returned, rubbing his double chin again, “can’t naturally be expected. The prospect of the change and separation, and all that, is, as one may say, close to her and far away from her, both at once. Barkis’s death needn’t put it off much, but his lingering might. Anyway, it’s an uncertain state of matters, you see.”
“I see,” said I.