"Well, sir," replied Carthew, after he had lighted the cigarette and ejected a flake of tobacco into the hearth. "There may be something wrong or there mayn't, if you understand what I mean. But I'm thinking of getting married."
"Oh! But what about that wife of yours?"
"Oh! Her! She's dead, all right. I never said anything, feeling as it might be ashamed of her."
"But I thought you'd done with women!"
"So did I, sir. But the question always is, Have women done with you? I was helping her to lift pictures down yesterday, and she was standing on a chair. And something came over me. And there you are before you know where you are, sir, if you understand what I mean."
"Perfectly, Carthew. But who is it?"
"Machin, sir. To cut a long story short, sir, I'd been thinking about her for the better part of some time, because of the boy, sir, because of the boy. She likes him. If it hadn't been for the boy—"
"Careful, Carthew!"
"Well, perhaps you're right, sir. She'd have copped me anyway."
"I congratulate you, Carthew. You've been copped by the best parlourmaid in London."