“Of course!” rather bitterly, “with nothing to settle on her but a sword, and a tailor’s bill.”
“Well, I hope you will come out of it all right. Have you got her photograph?”
“Yes,” examining it critically, “well, it’s a nice face, but one cannot judge; she may be marked with small-pox or have weak eyes, or a bad figure.”
“She has grey eyes, and is as tall and straight as a young fir tree,” rejoined George indignantly.
“A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, eh? And what is her name?”
“Elizabeth, but they call her Betty. Elizabeth Redmond.”
“Any relation to the Collector here?”
“I don’t know, very probably.”
“And what are your plans, if I may presume to enquire?”
“To pass if I can, and get something that will add to my pay, and then to write home and ask her to come out and marry me. She understands me!”