"I like her," said Bertie. "I think she's the most beautiful girl I've seen—bar one," he added, sotto voce, "and I like the candid, fearless look of her face. Those violet, velvet eyes, too."
"Nonsense, they're brown," said Leicester, but, although his voice was mocking, Bertie knew that his praises had pleased his friend.
"You evidently think as much of her yourself, mon ami," he said, significantly, "or you wouldn't drag that little beggar a mile and a half in a midsummer sun! Leicester's reformed! The bear is tamed!"
"Pshaw!" said Leicester. "Can't a man do a civil thing once in a way but all you young puppies must yelp at him?"
"Young!" retorted Bertie. "I like that, old Methuselah! Why, hang it, I'm older than you, if I haven't such a grim mug."
Leicester laughed.
"Then you've more years than sense, Bertie; so hold your tongue, and come on. I'd give a shilling for a bottle of Bass. If this little beggar were a hand smaller we'd tie his legs, sling him across your walking-stick, and carry him home in triumph like a dead rabbit."