“Go on, Sonny!”
Timothy loosened his Sam Browne, and stared at his puttees; then, by an inspiration, emptied his glass; and thus fortified, was able to continue:
“What I mean is—there used to be the girls you met in your own set, and they went about with your sisters, and there was no harm if you kissed ’em on the river, but of course you took jolly good care what you talked about to ’em. Sometimes you married ’em.”
“Exactly,” Kennedy commented. “Sometimes you married ’em. Proceed, Timothy.”
“And then—there was the other kind.” Timothy came to a full stop.
And the little Greek, his eyes vivid with mischief, took up the sequel of events:
“And these you kissed also ... and not only on the river. And you told them those droll stories that could not be told to the girls you married sometimes. And they laughed with flattering appreciation.”
“What I mean,” Timothy began anew, with obstinate determination to finish up the subject in as few words as possible, “is that a fellow used to be able to tell the two sorts apart in half a jiff, and now they’ve gone and got themselves so muddled up ... you take out one of the first kind, thoroughly nice girl and all that—and she talks about—well—dash it—about—about——”
“—The second kind,” suggested Stevenson.