"And she said she wouldn't? She refused you? Turned you down?" His little moustache shot up at the ends and a joyous, triumphant laugh broke from his lips. "Oh, this is rich! Ha, ha! Turned you down, eh? Poor old Brandy! You're my best friend, and dammit I'm sorry. I mean to say," he went on in some embarrassment, "I'm sorry for you. Of course, you can hardly expect me to—er—"
"Certainly not," accepted Booth amiably. "I quite understand."
"Then, since she's refused you, you might wish ME better luck."
"That would mean giving up hope."
"Hope?" exclaimed Leslie quickly. "You don't mean to say you'll annoy her with your—"
"No, I shall not annoy her," replied his friend, shaking his head.
"Well, I should hope not," said Leslie with a scowl. "Turned you down, eh? 'Pon my soul!" He appeared to be relishing the idea of it. "Sorry, old chap, but I suppose you understand just what that means."
Booth's lips hardened for an instant, then relaxed into a queer, almost pitying smile.
"And you want me to be your best man?" he said reflectively.
Leslie arose. His chest seemed to swell a little; assuredly he was breathing much easier. He assumed an air of compassion.