Mackenzie faced him quickly. "Tell me all about it," he said. "How old is she? You have known her all your life. When did you first find out you wanted to marry her? When are you going to be married?"
Jim looked at him squarely. "You are taking liberties," he said.
Mackenzie laughed again—his harsh, unamused laugh. "All right," he said. "One has to be as delicate as a fine lady talking to fellows like you. It's not worth it. When you live like a savage half your life, you sort of hunger after hearing about things like that—people living in the country, falling in love and getting married, and going to church every Sunday—all the simple, homely things. A man without all the nonsense about good form and all that sort of thing—a man who'd done things—he would know why you asked him, and he would know he couldn't find anybody better to tell his little happy secrets to."
"Oh, well," said Jim, slightly mollified.
"I dare say you're right, though," said Mackenzie. "One doesn't blab to every stranger. Even I don't, and I'm a rough diamond, as I've told you."
"Yes, you've told me that."
"Is the fellow who is going to marry your sister a country gentleman, too?"
"No. His father is. He's a younger son. He's a doctor."
"A doctor! Isn't that a funny thing for a country gentleman's son to be?"
"I don't know that it is. He's a clever fellow. He went in for science at Oxford, and got keen."