is no use talking to me. I know how to take a hint. She just didn't want me to—er—carry her, that's the long and the short of it."
"Did she struggle violently?"
"What?"
"You heard me. Did she?"
"Certainly not. She gave in when I insisted. What else could she do?" He whirled suddenly upon Mr. Bramble. "What are you grinning about, Bramby?"
"Who's grinning?" demanded Mr. Bramble indignantly, after the lapse of thirty or forty seconds.
"You were, confound you. I don't see anything to laugh at in—"
"My advice to you," broke in M. Mirabeau, still detached, "is to ask her."
"Ask her? Ask her what?"
"To marry you. As I was saying—"
"My God!" gasped Trotter.
"That is my advice also," put in Mr. Bramble, fumbling with his glasses and trying to suppress a smile,—for fear it would be misinterpreted. "I can't think of anything more admirable than the union of the Temple and Wexham families in—"
"But, good Lord," cried Trotter, "even if she'd have me, how on earth could I take care of her on a chauffeur's pay? And I'm not getting that now. I wish to call your attention to the fact that your little hero has less than fifty pounds,—a good deal less than fifty,—laid by for a rainy day."
"I've known a great many people who were married on rainy days," said M. Mirabeau brightly, "and nothing unlucky came of it."
