"Not at all, Aldean; your simile is quite inapt. I am not a moth, neither can Miss Bellairs be compared to a candle. She is not the kind of girl to scorch any poor butterfly that flutters round her."
"All right, old chap, you needn't take one quite so seriously. But as you do, I may as well be serious too. Do you know I am thinking of getting married?"
"No; that's news to me. And whom do you intend to honour so far, may I ask?"
"Miss Ostergaard, if she concurs." Aldean heaved a huge sigh. "By George! she's a ripping girl."
"Certainly, you might do worse," replied Laurence, musingly. "She's a very good girl, and clever too. Does she reciprocate?"
"I don't know; she laughs at me."
"That may be just her method of showing her affection. She will be hard to please if she is not satisfied with a titled Hercules like you."
"Oh, I don't think she bothers in the least about the title," said his lordship, dolefully, "she is quite a radical, a--a--what do you call it--Anarchist, you know. Dr. Drabble has been converting her. He's a proselytising beast, that Drabble."
"Oh, that's all rubbish. 'In the spring a young girl's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love'--not anarchy."
"But it isn't spring," said the literal Aldean, "and Miss Ostergaard isn't the girl to marry for rank."