"Yes, when I ask you incessant questions. But make some sort of a speech. I want to know what kind of a person Mallien is; I want a description of the lady; I desire to learn what the father does, and if he will give his daughter a dowry. In fact, I wish to know all about it, as naturally I take the greatest interest in the welfare of my old school chum." "Good old man," said Rupert, giving Carrington's arm so affectionate a squeeze that the barrister winced with the pain. "Well, Mallien's a beast, like Timon of Athens--you remember the play we read at school. I don't like Mallien, as he's always grousing at everyone and everything." "You give me the key to his character by mentioning Timon. Your future father-in-law is a misanthrope." Rupert nodded. "Very much so. And Dorinda is----" "An angel. I know what you are about to say." "I don't think you do. Dorinda is a good sort." "Is that all the praise you can bestow on your future wife?" "It's all she wants. Dorinda doesn't like compliments." "What an unnatural girl!" laughed Carrington, "and her looks?" Hendle filled his pipe while he replied and halted in the village square while he did so. "She's got black hair and blue eyes and a ripping figure and is heaps cleverer than I am." "What a bald description! Has she two eyes and a nose with a mouth under it?" "How you chaff, Carrington. However, when you come down again, you will see Dorinda for herself. Hallo, here's Kit." "Who is Kit?" questioned the other, as a smart motor car slipped easily out of the crooked street to halt in the square, as the village green was grandiloquently entitled. "The son of my housekeeper, Mrs. Beatson." "That sour-looking woman with the hard eye?" "The same. She has been hammered hard by misfortune, but is a lady born and bred for all that. Morning, Kit." "Good morning, Squire. Hot, isn't it? I can only get some sort of wind by running the machine at top speed." "You'll be roped in by the police if you don't mind your eye, Kit. My friend, Mr. Dean Carrington. This is Mr. Christopher Beatson, Carrington. He's a reckless hero, who plays with the whiskers of death on all and every occasion." "That is the habit of the present generation," said Carrington, with a nod to the handsome young fellow in the car. "Motors, aeroplanes, scenic railways and looping-the-loop. Youth enjoys nothing nowadays unless it has in it an element of danger. To go out and never know if you will be home to supper, Mr. Beatson: that is your delight." "There is much truth in what you say, Mr. Carrington," returned Kit, laughing. "After all, it's life." "This is the frantic age," said Hendle sententiously. "How's business, Kit?" "Ripping! I sold three cars last week on behalf of the firm. One to a lady." "Who was taken with your good looks, I suppose. Take care Miss Tollart doesn't grow jealous, Kit."