‘You must make yourself, with as little delay as possible, master of Arabella’s one thousand pounds.’
‘Three per cent. consolidated bank annuities, now standing in her name in the book or books of the governor and company of the Bank of England,’ added Bob Sawyer, in legal phraseology.
‘Exactly so,’ said Ben. ‘She has it when she comes of age, or marries. She wants a year of coming of age, and if you plucked up a spirit she needn’t want a month of being married.’
‘She’s a very charming and delightful creature,’ quoth Mr. Robert Sawyer, in reply; ‘and has only one fault that I know of, Ben. It happens, unfortunately, that that single blemish is a want of taste. She don’t like me.’
‘It’s my opinion that she don’t know what she does like,’ said Mr. Ben Allen contemptuously.
‘Perhaps not,’ remarked Mr. Bob Sawyer. ‘But it’s my opinion that she does know what she doesn’t like, and that’s of more importance.’
‘I wish,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, setting his teeth together, and speaking more like a savage warrior who fed on raw wolf’s flesh which he carved with his fingers, than a peaceable young gentleman who ate minced veal with a knife and fork—‘I wish I knew whether any rascal really has been tampering with her, and attempting to engage her affections. I think I should assassinate him, Bob.’
‘I’d put a bullet in him, if I found him out,’ said Mr. Sawyer, stopping in the course of a long draught of beer, and looking malignantly out of the porter pot. ‘If that didn’t do his business, I’d extract it afterwards, and kill him that way.’
Mr. Benjamin Allen gazed abstractedly on his friend for some minutes in silence, and then said—
‘You have never proposed to her, point-blank, Bob?’