“And how long has this been going on, you sly dog? Are you engaged to her?”
“No such luck. I could not well invite her to share a subaltern’s pay. She is not married yet, I know, and I’m going to write to her this mail, and ask her to be——”
“Mrs. Galway! Hooroo, hooray! And owner of Bungalow No. 25, two cane chairs, one camp table, one fox-terrier dog, aged, ditto bay horse, deaf and blind——”
“Shut up, will you, you young idiot?” said his friend, impatiently. “I know that her aunt leads her a devil of a life, and to come out to a home of her own would be a merciful release. You see she is companion, ladies’ maid, gooseberry, and scapegoat. Poor girl, she has had hard lines.”
“I remember Miss Browne, Senior—she was at every ball and tennis-party in the place,” observed Jack Murray, thoughtfully. “The niece was always kept well in the background. I was rather interested in the niece myself, but her aunt declared she hated society and had other engagements.”
“Her other engagements were sitting at home, darning stockings or crying her eyes out,” said Captain Galway. “Her aunt is a Tartar, if ever there was one. A soured, ill-natured, hypocritical old cat.”
“All the same she is a well-gilt old cat. Has heaps of coin. I wonder if she will give her niece a dowry?”
“If she gives her her passage money I shall be agreeably surprised,” was the prompt reply.
“Well, now, I suppose you want to write the letter, and I won’t disturb you,” said Jack Murray, rising, “unless I can be of any assistance? Eh?”
“No, thank you”—very gruffly.