"Yes," admitted Stanley, "and so I'd better make a clean breast of the matter."
"Decidedly."
"The fact is, I want to marry—or rather, don't want to marry—no, that's not it either— I want to marry the girl bad enough, but I think I'd better not. It would be what the world—what you might call, a foolish match."
"Deucedly hard hit, I suppose?"
"You see," continued the Secretary, ignoring his friend's question, "I know I oughtn't to marry her, but left to myself, I'd do it, and I need a jolly good rowing—only you mustn't be disrespectful to the lady—I—I couldn't stand that."
"I think I know her name."
"Miss Fitzgerald. You dined with her at the Hyde Park Club last evening."
"Daughter of old Fitzgerald of the —th Hussars——"
"I—I believe that was her father's regiment, but now she lives——"
"Lives!" interjected Kent-Lauriston. "No, she doesn't live—visits round with her relatives—old Irish ancestry—ruined castles and no rents—washy blue eyes and hair, at present, golden."