"Win?—against a professional? Lord, child, he was doin' well to stand up to him one round, let alone three! It was Dan McCabe, Dick."
"McCabe? You don't say," repeated the Major, highly interested. "Blair must be pretty good, then!"
In his younger days Richard Darcy had been something of a devotee of the gloves himself, and still kept up an interest in ring affairs. Boxing, he held, was one of the few exercises really becoming a gentleman; and he had sometimes modestly called the attention of this decadent golfing-generation to a figure any boy of them might well envy, as a result of the sport of kings.
Not latterly, however. Of the Major's more recent figure, the less said the better. Even the mild exertions of the one-step caused him to perspire and puff audibly, and he had requested that the cheval mirror be removed from his dressing-room—a rather serious sign with Richard Darcy. His wife in vain suggested riding, golf, massage. The Major preferred the expedient of doing without his mirror.
She had in mind this growing embonpoint when she spoke of Archibald's accomplishment—as well as several other matters, being a woman who thought nothing of killing two and even three birds with one stone.
"Dickie, I been thinking how nice it would be if you were to put on the gloves with young Blair sometimes? I've always wanted to see you box."
"Pooh," he murmured, flattered, however, by the suggestion. "I couldn't interest him now. And before all those young whipper-snappers at the gymnasium? I'd be a laughing-stock!"
"Why not get him to come up here? Fix up a sort of gymnasium in the attic?"
"Oh, do!" urged Joan, who had been not a little troubled by the recent change in her father. "It will be just what you need, Dad, and such fun! I'm sure you could 'interest' him still."
The Major's eye kindled a little. He was always responsive to any belief in himself. "You think so, Dollykins? Well, possibly, possibly—But you speak as if Blair were to be had for the asking, my love!"