Sylvia was indubitably a perfect fool about Skelton, as her mother reminded her a dozen times a day. When Sylvia would cunningly place herself at a window which looked across the fields to Deerchase, Mrs. Shapleigh would remark fretfully: “Sylvia, I declare you behave like a lunatic about Richard Skelton. I’m sure I was as much in love with your father as any well brought up girl might be, but I assure you it never cost me a wink of sleep.” “Very probably, mamma.” “And I was so afraid some one would know it, that I never breathed a word of our engagement to a soul. It’s true, some people suspected it after we went to a party at Newington and danced ten quadrilles together, one after the other, but I denied we were engaged up to two weeks before the wedding.” “Did you say ten quadrilles, mamma?” “Yes, ten.” “I’m sure Mr. Skelton and I will never dance ten quadrilles in one evening with each other.” “And your father was a much younger and handsomer man than Richard Skelton, who has crow’s-feet in the corners of his eyes.” “I like crow’s-feet. They impart an air of thoughtful distinction to a man.” “And Mr. Skelton has a bald place as big as a dollar on the top of his head. Does that add an air of thoughtful distinction, too?” “Of course it does. There is something captivating in Mr. Skelton’s baldness; it is unique, like himself. It makes me more and more delighted at the idea that I am going to be married to him.” “Sylvia!” shrieked Mrs. Shapleigh, “do you dare to be so bold and forward as to say that you _want_ to marry Mr. Skelton?” “Yes, indeed, mamma--dreadfully.” Mrs. Shapleigh raised her hands and let them fall in her lap in despair. “For a girl to acknowledge such a thing! Now, if you wanted to be mistress of Deerchase, there’d be no harm in it; but to want to marry a man because you are in love with him! Dear, dear, dear! what is the world coming to?” Sylvia laughed with shameless merriment at this, and just then the door opened and old Tom came in. “Mr. Shapleigh,” began Mrs. Shapleigh in a complaining voice, “Sylvia’s not at all like me.” “Not a bit,” cheerfully assented old Tom. “She isn’t ashamed to say that she is in love with Richard Skelton, and wants to marry him. Nobody ever heard me say, Mr. Shapleigh, that I was in love with you, or wanted to marry you.” “No, indeed, madam. It was not worth while. You hung upon me like ivy on a brick wall.” “La, Mr. Shapleigh, how you talk!” “And I’m sure, my love, if anybody doubts my devotion to you during your lifetime, they’d never doubt it after you’re dead. I’ll engage to wear more crape and weepers than any ten widowers in the county.” This always shut Mrs. Shapleigh up. Sylvia gave her father a reproving look, but she was too much used to this kind of thing to take it seriously. Old Tom, though, indulged in his sly rallying too.