Lark

“She sings like a lark,” Joseph offered.

Timothy hid a grimace behind his cup of tea. “And she looks like a bag of boots.”

Marianne’s giggle was high-pitched and particularly annoying. She fanned herself with one of her kid gloves. “It wouldn’t be fair if God bestowed both beauty and such a magnificent voice on her, or one person’s greatness would encroach on Henry’s, and we can’t have that, can we?”

Henry stood in the corner of the parlor, hands clasped behind his back. “I don’t appreciate the insinuations in your comments, Miss Marianne.”

Again with the giggle. Timothy resisted the urge to cover his ears.

“Oh Henry, don’t be so insensitive.” Marianne flapper her glove at him. “Now send the little songbird home and we can talk properly - about marriage and children and things.”

Henry straightened the lapels of his jacket and cast Marianne a cold look. “She’s not just a songbird, and I shall not send her home if I so choose. Good day Timothy, Joseph.”

Marianne could only squeak like a strangled canary when she saw Henry step into the garden to speak to the girl.

“She sings like a lark,” Joseph said again.

Timothy smirked behind his cup of tea. “And she has a brain.”

(210 words)