"I should think you had left your own country long enough, Glentworth, and, since you are married, would think it right to settle in England, go into parliament, and so forth," said a friend.
"So I intend, certainly; but I have promised to go to Italy."
"Surely, dear Mr. Glentworth, you do not apprehend that I shall trouble you to keep that promise—the sooner I go to England the sooner I see my sisters, you know," said Isabella; "besides, I shall be with you in either case."
"My promise must be kept, Isabella; but be assured I feared no trouble of any kind from you, who are always the best little girl in the world."
"I shall not be the best little one much longer, for I am growing very fast since we left England. Dr. Bartolomé says it is the climate, and that I may go on for a year or two; and, being quite tall enough already, I am willing to leave Marseilles whenever you please, for I don't want to be a may-pole."
There was something so extremely ridiculous in the idea of having a wife who was so very much a child as to be growing, in the opinion of poor Glentworth (who was in all respects a fastidious and sensitive man), that he evidently shrunk from the eyes of his company, several of whom were exchanging smiles. Mary saw his situation, and observed immediately—
"You forget the words, dear Isabella—he said you would grow till you were eighteen; and that time
