“Good heavens!—I—I beg pardon! I mean—why need we talk about Fräulein’s affairs?”
“I was talking about mine.”
“I see no connection.”
He was not angry with me, though (as will have been seen) I had lost my temper hopelessly and disastrously. He got up and stood in front of the fire.
“I hadn’t the pluck, Treg, my boy,” he said. His voice sounded rather dreary, but I had no leisure to pity him.
“Good Heavens, do you suppose she’d have looked at you?” I cried. “Remember who she is!”
“That’s all very well, but facts are facts,” said Charley Miles. “I didn’t mean to make trouble, Treg, old boy. On my honour, I didn’t.” He made a long pause. “I hope I shall be asking you to congratulate me soon, Treg,” he went on.
“Ask me in public, and I’ll do it.”
“That’s just being vicious,” he complained, and with entire justice. “Bessie’s a first-rate girl.”
“I’m very sorry, Charley. So she is. She’ll suit you a mile better than—than Fräulein.”