Richmal Crompton

“ It's no use struggling."
A sudden flicker of firelight showed up his flushed, bewildered features.
"Heavens, you're Harry Graham!" she gasped.
Her disappointment was obvious.
There was silence in the room except for the sound of the puppy chewing the wainscoting behind the sofa.
At last she spoke. "I thought you were a burglar," she said in a small, flat voice, going over to the fireplace, where she sank, a little disconsolate heap, on the hearthrug. "I think it's simply beastly of you!" she went on, with a hint of tears in her voice. ”

“ A really strong, silent man should marry someone younger than himself, someone with blue eyes and auburn hair.
"I just dropped in," he said distantly, "to bring a small present for Joan—the dog, I mean."
"All right," said the ex-Best-Beloved pleasantly. "Don't let the fire out."
She took a case of cigarettes from the mantelpiece and went out, closing the door.
"Harry Graham's there," she said to the male parent in the dining-room. "He seems to have taken to Joan. It's a great relief."
"Don't see that it makes any difference," said the male parent gloomily. ”

“ Is that your dog that's chewing up the hearthrug?"
The boy looked at her coldly. However had he thought her the one and only woman? Good Heavens! She was old—old—twenty-five if she was a day. ... Horrible! ... When he was forty-four she'd be fifty—fifty—at least, he thought so. He counted again on his fingers in his pocket to make sure. Yes, fifty! Good Heavens! No man, however experienced and strong and silent, should marry a woman older than himself—a woman who'd be fifty when he was only a bit over forty. ”