They had been talking of all sorts of indifferent things. Blachland knew, however, that the other wanted to talk on a subject that was not indifferent, and was shy to lead up to it. He must help him through directly, because he didn’t want to be awake all night. But when they had turned in and had lit their pipes for a final smoke, Percival began—
“I say, Hilary, what do you think of that Mrs Fenham?”
“Rather short acquaintance to give an opinion upon, isn’t it?”
“No. Skittles! But I say, old chap, she’s devilish fetching, eh?”
“So you seem to find. It strikes me, Percy, you’re making a goodish bit of running in that quarter. Look out.”
The other laughed good-humouredly, happily in fact.
“Why ‘look out?’ I mean making running there. By Jove, I never came across any one like her!”
Blachland smiled grimly to himself behind a great puff of smoke. He had good reason to believe that statement.
“It’s a fact,” went on Percival. “But I say, old chap, she doesn’t seem to fetch you at all. I’m rather glad, of course—in fact, devilish glad. Still, I should have thought she’d be just the sort of woman who’d appeal to you no end. You must be getting blasé.”
“My dear Percy, a man’s idiocies don’t stay with him all his life, thank Heaven—though their results are pretty apt to.”