"My dear Stafford, I know that you are not possessed of a particularly brilliant intellect, but you surely possess sufficient intelligence to see that your attentions to Miss Falconer are somewhat obvious."
"What?" said Stafford. "My attentions to Miss Falconer—Are you chaffing, Howard?"
"Not in the least: it's usually too great a waste of time with you, my dear boy: you don't listen, and when you do, half the time you don't understand. No, I'm quite serious; but perhaps I ought to have said her attentions to you; it would have been more correct."
Stafford coloured.
"Look here, old man," he said. "If you think—Oh, dash it all, what nonsense it is! Miss Falconer and I are very good friends; and of course I like to talk to her—she's so sharp, almost as smart and clever as you are, when she likes to take the trouble; and of course I like to hear her sing—Why, my dear Howard, it's like listening to one of the big operatic swells; but—but to suggest that there is anything—that—there is any reason to warn me—Oh, dash it! come off it, old man, you're chaffing?"
"Not in the least. But I didn't intend any warning: in fact, I am in honour bound to refrain from anything of the kind—"
"In honour bound?" said Stafford.
Howard almost blushed.
"Oh, it's nothing; only a silly wager," he said. "I can't tell you, so don't enquire. But all the same—well, there, I won't say more if you are sure there is nothing between you."
"I have the best of reasons for saying so," said Stafford, carelessly, and with a touch of colour in his face. "But it's all dashed nonsense! The women always think there's something serious going on if you dance twice with a girl, or sit and talk to her for half an hour."