Kipps admitted his deficiency. He felt compunction.
"You don't know who my girl is, Art Kipps—I bet."
"Who is, then?" asked Kipps, still chiefly occupied by his own poverty.
"Ah!"
Kipps let a moment elapse before he did his duty. "Tell us!"
Sid eyed him and hesitated. "Secret?" he said.
"Secret."
"Dying solemn?"
"Dying solemn!" Kipps' self-concentration passed into curiosity.
Sid administered a terrible oath. Even after that precaution he adhered lovingly to his facts. "It begins with a Nem," he said, doling them out parsimoniously. "M A U D," he spelt, with a stern eye on Kipps, "C H A R T E R I S."
Now, Maud Charteris was a young person of eighteen and the daughter of the vicar of St. Bavon's,—besides which she had a bicycle,—so that as her name unfolded the face of Kipps lengthened with respect. "Get out!" he gasped incredulously. "She ain't your girl, Sid Pornick."
"She is!" answered Sid, stoutly.
"What—truth?"
"Truth."
Kipps scrutinised his face. "Reely?"
Sid touched wood, whistled, and repeated a binding doggerel with great solemnity.
