“Good heavens, Prescott,” Frank said, turning round with great indignation, “what are you talking about?—stout little—by Jove, what put such a ridiculous idea in your head?”
“Why, my dear Frank, you said she was rather short and plump.”
“Pooh, nonsense,” Frank said; “she is rather short, perhaps, but has a charming little figure; just a little plump; but—” and muttering the obnoxious word over to himself, he smoked away in short angry puffs.
Prescott could hardly help laughing aloud at the success which attended his ruse.
“So Miss O'Byrne is not to be talked of lightly, eh, Frank?”
“Oh, nonsense,” Frank said. “Of course one doesn't like to hear a girl like Katie talked of as a stout little—but there, of course you couldn't tell.”
“And do you ever mean to repeat your visit, Frank?”
“Well, yes, Prescott, I expect I shall go down there again; at least I hope so.”
“And may I ask, Frank, if you have any intention of bringing Miss O'Byrne back with you?”
Frank put his pipe down, and looked at Prescott, who was evidently greatly amused; then, after a moment's pause, he said,—