`` That 's my cousin , Marian Lindsay , '' he answered . `` She is rather nice-looking , is n't she . Lives in Croyden now -- used to live up the river at Chiselhurst . Did n't you ever chance across her when you were in Croyden ? '' `` No , '' I said . `` If I had I would n't have forgotten her face . '' `` Well , she 'd be only a kid then , of course . She 's twenty-six now . Marian is a mighty nice girl , but she 's bound to be an old maid . She 's got notions -- ideals , she calls 'em . All the Croyden fellows have been in love with her at one time or another but they might as well have made up to a statue . Marian really has n't a spark of feeling or sentiment in her . Her looks are the best part of her , although she 's confoundedly clever . '' Peter spoke rather squiffily . I suspected that he had been one of the smitten swains himself . I looked at the photo for a few minutes longer , admiring it more every minute and , when I heard Peter coming out , I did an unjustifiable thing -- I took that photo and put it in my pocket . I expected Peter would make a fuss when he missed it , but that very night the house in which he lived was burned to the ground . Peter escaped with the most important of his goods and chattels , but all the counterfeit presentments of his dear divinities went up in smoke . If he ever thought particularly of Marian Lindsay 's photograph he must have supposed that it shared the fate of the others . As for me , I propped my ill-gotten treasure up on my mantel and worshipped it for a fortnight .
At the end of that time I went boldly to XXXXX and told him I wanted him to introduce me by letter to his dear cousin and ask her to agree to a friendly correspondence with me .
Chiselhurst Croyden Lindsay Marian Peter fortnight minute minutes night swains