Nick nodded. There was a reminiscent glitter in his eyes. "My courtship represented two years' hard labour. It nearly killed me. However, we've made up for it since."
"I don't propose to spend two years over mine," said Max.
Nick's eyes flashed upwards, meeting those of the younger man with something of the effect of a collision. His body however remained quite passive, and his voice even sounded as if it had a laugh in it as he made response.
"I think you're a decent chap," he said, "and I think you might make her happy; but I'm damned if she shall marry any man—good, bad, or indifferent—before she's ready."
"You also think you could prevent such a catastrophe?" suggested Max cynically.
Nick grinned with baffling amiability. "No, I don't think. I know. Quite a small spoke is enough to stop a wheel—even a mighty big wheel—if it's going too fast."
And again, more than half against his will, Max laughed. "You make a very efficient chaperon," he said.
"It's my speciality just now," said Nick.
He closed his eyes again peaceably, and gave himself up to his cigar.
Max, his rough red brows drawn together, leaned back against the mantelpiece and smoked his pipe, staring at the opposite wall. There was no strain in the silence between them. Both were preoccupied.