“Great Scott!” he chirruped, “you look as if you’d seen trouble and no mistake! How goes it?”
“Devil!” I answered. “Tell me how long this loathsome tragedy is to last.”
“All depends on you, Tarver. Primrose goes down every day to look at you and weep over you. The doctors are still undecided. Two hold out that you are alive, but all the others say you’re dead as a herring. I tell them I think you live.”
“Is there no alternative except a union with Miss Robinson?”
“None, Tarver. I’ve no hesitation in saying this: the marriage was made in heaven.”
“In Thibet, more likely,” I replied, not without acerbity.
“Has Providence taken any steps yet?” he asked civilly.
The question gave me fresh courage.
“No, but do your worst,” I answered; “I still have hope. You cannot rob me of life; you cannot alter my destiny.”
“True,” he admitted, “I cannot; but I can give you about the worst time in these Gardens any man ever endured even in imagination. The day after to-morrow is Bank Holiday. Just you wait and see where you come in then!”