"I shouldn't waste any more time thinking about that, old chap," said Gilly, delicately dissecting a young partridge.
"You're not going out of your way to be flattering. It appears to me at least to be a matter of some importance whom I marry. I thought perhaps my brother might take that view too."
"Oh, I do, old chap. I know it's devilish important to you. All I mean is that in this particular case you needn't go about weighing the question. Ask the Nun right off."
"You really advise it?" Billy demanded, wrinkling his brow in judicial gravity, but inwardly rather delighted.
"I do," Gilly rejoined. "Ask her right off—get it off your mind! It doesn't matter a hang, because she's sure to refuse you." He smiled at his brother across the table—a table spread by that brother's bounty—in a fat and comfortable fashion.
Billy preserved his temper with some difficulty. "Purely for the sake of argument, assume that I am a person whom she might possibly accept."
"Can't. There are limits to hypothesis, beyond which discussion is unprofitable. I merely ask you to note how much time and worry you'll be saved if you adopt my suggestion."
"You'll look a particular fool if I do—and she says yes."
"Are you quite sure they brought the claret you ordered, Billy?—What's that you said?"
"I'm sure it's the claret, and I'm sure you're an idiot!" Billy crossly retorted.