"Who would want to?" And he grimaced horribly.
"Oh, I say now!" I protested warmly.
"My boy, I tell you I know—you don't!" He lifted his hand eloquently, deflecting the corners of his mouth—oh, such a way! "No, siree, I tell you there's not another living man would dare chance it!" He threw himself backward, puffing his cheeks at me and walling his eyes frightfully. "In fact, hereabouts—where Francis is known, there have been two men—only just two—who ever had the temerity to do it."
"Oh!" I commented. Wondered if one of these was the other chap she was engaged to.
He proceeded impressively: "One of these, my dear sir, was our rector—a most charming and venerable old man, now nearly eighty-three and partially paralyzed and deaf; lives a sweet, patient life all alone, you know, with no one in the world to care for him. Well, sir," he stiffened dramatically, leveling one finger at me, "do you think that Francis would even listen to him?"
Did I? Well, dash it, did I?
But I tried to mumble something polite.
"And then—" he puffed as he relighted his cigar, "there's Jack's chauffeur, you know."
"Eh, Jack's—what's that?" I gripped the arms of my chair.
"Yes," he nodded, "Jack's chauffeur. Oh, I was so disappointed at the result of his effort!" The old gentleman slipped back in his chair with a sigh. "Francis just swore at him, you know!"