"You were, confound you. I don't see anything to laugh at in—"
"My advice to you," broke in M. Mirabeau, still detached, "is to ask her."
"Ask her? Ask her what?"
"To marry you. As I was saying—"
"My God!" gasped Trotter.
"That is my advice also," put in Mr. Bramble, fumbling with his glasses and trying to suppress a smile,—for fear it would be misinterpreted. "I can't think of anything more admirable than the union of the Temple and Wexham families in—"
"But, good Lord," cried Trotter, "even if she'd have me, how on earth could I take care of her on a chauffeur's pay? And I'm not getting that now. I wish to call your attention to the fact that your little hero has less than fifty pounds,—a good deal less than fifty,—laid by for a rainy day."
"I've known a great many people who were married on rainy days," said M. Mirabeau brightly, "and nothing unlucky came of it."
"Moreover, when your grandfather passes away," urged Mr. Bramble, "you will be a very rich man,—provided, of course, he doesn't remain obstinate and leave his money to some one else. In any event, you would come in for sufficient to—"
"You forget," began Trotter, gravely and with a dignity that chilled the eager old man, "that I will not go back to England, nor will I claim anything that is in England, until a certain injustice is rectified and I am set straight in the eyes of the unbelievers."