“Well—more or less, to talk about Frankie.... And—in fact, she ... gave herself away, you know.... I really can’t explain very well, old boy, but—I rather lost my head ... and—she stayed.”
“Phew!” said Horace.
“So,” said Lionel, and grew very red again, “Well, in fact—what else could I do? We took a furnished flat—and we weren’t going to say anything about it for a bit—and then this baby—— So we were married yesterday.”
Horace was looking unusually grave. There were things about this affair he didn’t like.
“You’re sure it wasn’t a trap? It looks mighty queer, my boy.”
Lionel laughed.
“I wish you knew Minnie,” he said. “Then you’d never think such a thing. She’s the most naïve, simple little soul——”
“But she should not have stopped there with you. She must have known she was forcing you into a marriage. My boy.... It’s a bad business. How old is she?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Old enough to understand all that. My boy, I know you fairly well. I’d take an oath,” he said solemnly, “that you wouldn’t ‘lose your head,’ as you put it, and take advantage of a respectable young woman unless you were given encouragement—an extraordinary amount of encouragement. Am I right?”