Bertie's
preferences did not greatly matter; he was of the sort who can be
stolidly happy with any kind of wife; he had cheerfully put up with his
grandmother all his life, so was not likely to fret and fume over
anything that might befall him in the way of a helpmate.
The party that gathered under Teresa's roof in Christmas week of the year
nineteen-hundred-and-something was of smaller proportions than usual, and
Mrs. Yonelet, who formed one of the party, was inclined to deduce hopeful
augury from this circumstance. Dora Yonelet and Bertie were so obviously
made for one another, she confided to the vicar's wife, and if the old
lady were accustomed to seeing them about a lot together she might adopt
the view that they would make a suitable married couple.
"People soon get used to an idea if it is dangled constantly before their
eyes," said Mrs. Yonelet hopefully, "and the more often Teresa sees those
young people together, happy in each other's company, the more she will
get to take a kindly interest in Dora as a possible and desirable wife
for Bertie."
"My dear," said the vicar's wife resignedly, "my own Sybil was thrown
together with Bertie under the most romantic circumstances--I'll tell you
about it some day--but it made no impression whatever on Teresa; she put
her foot down in the most uncompromising fashion, and Sybil married an
Indian civilian."
"Quite right of her," said Mrs. Yonelet with vague approval; "it's what
any girl of spirit would have done.
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