“How should I know, dear chappie? I’m not one of those thought-reading fellows. But perhaps she’s—ar—telling him about her sister. Girls always try and run a fellow for their sisters if they can’t get the fellow—ar—for themselves.” “Here, waiter!” shouted Robinson, “what did you bring sweet potatoes for? Nobody ordered them. Take the damned things away and bury them.” The waiter grinned and vanished with the dishes, and Robinson set to savagely tearing at a tough beefsteak with a silver-bladed knife. “Money’s run out,” he grumbled, “and back we go to-morrow to live like wild beasts in a palmetto-shuck, on that accursed food and nothing else. I believe that foul, grinning nigger knew, and brought those sweet spuds here just to insult us. I’ve a great mind to break his beastly neck.” “What’s the use of getting hot over it this weather?” said Kent-Williams. “If you did break the nigger’s neck it wouldn’t add to your income, and that’s the only occupation I know worth living for.” “And, therefore, you want to marry Mrs. Duvernay?” “Or any one else with a modicum of dollars. I’m not prejudiced. Believe me, dear boy, I could pour out a whole wealth of affection on sweet Mabel or sweet Kitty, or sweet anybody else who was able to support me in moderate comfort. At present my talents are thrown away during nineteen-twentieths of the year, because Nature never intended me to shine as a noble savage. Consequently, dear boy, I’m ready to throw myself away on any one.” “Oh, I like that,” said Robinson. “You might have married a girl here last winter.” “The traveling English person without the aitches? Yes, dear boy, I did think about it. But I came to the conclusion that she was too old to reform, and, don’t you know, one really couldn’t stand living with an aitchless person eternally for any amount of income. Of course, it was a sacrifice, and the poor girl was very let down; but I think she’ll get over it in time. They all do.” “Probably she has done,” said Robinson, grimly. “From what he said, her father was quite resigned to your loss before he left here.” “My prospective father-in-law was sordid. He couldn’t appreciate a gentleman. Now, Mabel’s papa is in a better land, and, by Jove! that’s a great point in her favor. I never could stand paternal advice.” “You seem to be making pretty sure of getting the lady.” “I’m not at all sure, but I want to find out how the land lies. And, by Jove! clever thought! I know how to do it. I’ll go to Onslow after dinner, tell him I’m going to call on Mrs. Duvernay to-morrow, and offer to take him down there in my dug-out. I shall soon see what his game is. If he’s after her still, he’ll look jealous, and trust me for seeing it; and if he isn’t, why it’s a walk-over.”