Clar’s laugh was an interesting study in manly assurance.
“I really wish you were married,” continued his sister rather peevishly.
“Yes; to a rich elderly widow who has had her fling—that is my style.”
“What a horrible way of talking! You are really too dreadful. I suppose this trip will be rather costly?”
“Ra—ther!” emphatically.
“And you will be the treasurer?” opening her pale eyes to their widest extent.
“I’m not so sure of that,” shaking his head. “Of course, as I am the manager, and am personally conducting this tour, all payments ought to come from me. ‘The uncle,’ however, is rather shy of having monetary dealings with his brother-in-law, as you know by sad experience. However, I may be able to work it, once we are in India, and you may depend upon me for making the most of my time and—opportunities. I was so hard up, I was thinking of taking a leaf out of Charlie Wilde’s book. He writes hymns and tracts——”
“How absurd you are! What preposterous nonsense! Charlie Wilde, who has never entered a place of worship for years, write tracts!”
“I tell you that he does!” persisted Clarence. “He has a wonderful knack, and does the pathetic and emotional style A1. Gets about ten pounds apiece, and invests the money in a flutter on the turf.”
“Well, Clar,” said his deeply shocked sister, “I cannot compliment you on your companions; and, whatever you may come to, I hope you will never arrive at such a pitch of wickedness as that.”