"There wasn't anything to see," protested Archie. "You've been lyin' low, you howlin' hypocrite! I always said you were a dark horse."
The Poor Relation smiled upon him tolerantly.
"Can't you call me anything else interesting? It seems to have hurt your feelings rather, not being in the know. I can't understand your not smelling a rat. Where are your wits, man?"
He tapped Archie's head smartly with his knuckles, and passed on, the smile still wrinkling his pale eyes and the forehead above them from which the hair was steadily receding towards the top of his skull.
Certainly the gods had not been kind to him in the matter of personal beauty, but a certain charm he possessed, notwithstanding, which procured for him a well-grounded popularity.
"You'll let me wish you luck, anyway, Rivington," one man said.
"Rather!" echoed Archie. "I hope you'll ask me to your weddin'."
"All of you," said the Poor Relation generously. "It's going to be a mountainous affair, and Archie shall officiate as best man."
"When is it to take place?" some one asked.
"Oh, very soon—very soon indeed; actual date not yet fixed. St. George's, Hanover Square, of course; and afterwards at Lady Florence Cardwell's charming mansion in Park Lane. It'll be a thrilling performance altogether." The Poor Relation beamed impartially upon his well-wishers. He seemed to be hugely enjoying himself.