“I will explain everything to your satisfaction—shortly.”
“The sooner the better for your own sake.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Crispin, with some hauteur.
“I mean as regards Eunice,” explained Maurice quickly. “If you don’t tell my aunt of your intentions, and put yourself right as regards money and position in her eyes, she will marry Eunice to some one else. Failing me,—and I have not the slightest intention of marrying my dear cousin,—she will angle for another rich man, who will probably not be so blind to the charms of Eunice as I am. In that case, my poor Crispin, I am afraid it will be all up with you.”
“What you say is very true,” replied Crispin reflectively. “I will speak to Mrs. Dengelton before I leave the Grange.”
“I cannot understand what you are making all this mystery about.”
“Because I am proud,” rejoined the poet, with a flush on his dark cheek. “I cannot explain myself now, but I will some day, and then you will see I have a good reason for my reticence.”
“So be it. But at present you are a riddle.”
“Well, I suppose I am,” said Crispin smilingly; “but one which will shortly be explained, and, like all riddles, turn out to be very disappointing. By the way, you might offer me one of those excellent cigarettes.”
“Certainly,” answered Maurice, holding out his open case. “Unlike Caliphronas, you are fond of smoking.”