“I very much doubt it. I had two letters from Ilfracombe last April, and I very much doubt that the man who wrote them can exist.” Bending downwards he began to adorn the manuscript of his dissertation with a square, and inside that a circle, and inside that another square. It was his second dissertation: the first had failed.
“I think he exists: he is so unhappy.”
Ansell nodded. “How did you know he was unhappy?”
“Because he was always talking.” After a pause he added, “What clever young men we are!”
“Aren’t we? I expect we shall get asked in marriage soon. I say, Widdrington, shall we—?”
“Accept? Of course. It is not young manly to say no.”
“I meant shall we ever do a more tremendous thing,—fuse Mrs. Elliot.”
“No,” said Widdrington promptly. “We shall never do that in all our lives.” He added, “I think you might go down to Sawston, though.”
“I have already refused or ignored three invitations.”
“So I gathered.”