As Champe entered he turned, with the poker in his hand, and spoke out of the fulness of his heart:—
“She's a beauty, I declare she is.”
Champe broke short his whistling, and threw off his coat.
“Well, I dare say she was fifty years ago,” he rejoined gravely.
“Oh, don't be an utter ass; you know I mean Virginia.”
“My dear boy, I had supposed Miss Lydia to be the object of your attentions. You mustn't be a Don Juan, you know, you really mustn't. Spare the sex, I entreat.”
Dan aimed a blow at him with a boot that was lying on the rug. “Shut up, won't you,” he growled.
“Well, Virginia is a beauty,” was Champe's amiable response. “Jack Morson swears Aunt Emmeline's picture can't touch her. He's writing to his father now, I don't doubt, to say he can't live without her. Go down, and he'll read you the letter.”
Dan's face grew black. “I'll thank him to mind his own business,” he grumbled.
“Oh, he thinks he's doing it.”