“It wasn’t just what she said,” mused Gladwin, 60 “though that was bad enough, but it was the way she said it. These were her exact words, ‘Go on, yer fresh slob, an’ sneak yer biscuits!’ How does that suit you for exploding a romance?”
“Blown to powder and bits,” murmured Whitney Barnes, sombrely. “Sorry you told me this––never mind why––but there’s one thing I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time: How about that girl you rescued from drowning four years ago? I remember it made you quite famous at the time. According to all standards of romance, you should have married her.”
Travers Gladwin looked up with a wry smile.
“Did you ever see the lady?” he asked sharply.
“No. Wasn’t she pretty?”
“She was a brunette.”
“You don’t fancy brunettes?”
“She was a dark brunette.”
“Dark?”
“Yes, from Africa.”