“No!” I replied, looking directly at him. “On the contrary, you are a very fine-looking man.”
A glow of vanity spread over his face. I poured out a glass of the Burgundy and pushed it toward him.
“England to Wales!” he cried with gallantry. “I don't generally drink,” he added, “but these crackers make me thirsty.”
“If I could only find a wife suited to my tastes,” he mused, “such a woman as you are, by George! I'd give up aesthetic burglary and settle down to quiet domestic bliss.” He looked questioningly at me. “If”—he hesitated—“you could be sure I would abandon my profession—would you—do you think you could—condone my past and—marry me?”
“That is a matter for consideration,” I replied.
He helped himself to another cracker.
“Your proposal is so startlingly unique,” I continued, “to marry one's burglar! Really it is quite a joke.”
“Isn't it?” he chuckled, evidently enjoying the idea of the oddity. “We are kindred spirits!” he exclaimed, convivially, but was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing.
Seizing the bottle of Burgundy, he drained the only drop or two left.