"Don't you want to know what we talked about," pursued Warburton, looking at him with half-closed eyelids. "Principally about you."
"That's very flattering—but perhaps you abused me?"
"On the whole, no. Discussed you, yes, and in considerable detail, coming to the conclusion that you were a very decent fellow, and we both of us liked you very much."
Franks laughed gaily, joyously.
"Que vous etes aimables, tous-les-deux! You make me imagine I'm back in Paris. Must I round a compliment in reply?"
"That's as you like. But first I'll tell you the upshot of it all, as it shapes itself to me. Hasn't it even dimly occurred to you that, under the circumstances, it would be—well, say a graceful thing—to give that girl a chance of changing her mind again?"
"What—Rosamund?"
"It never struck you?"
"But, hang it all, Warburton!" exclaimed the artist. "How should I have thought of it? You know very well—and then, it's perfectly certain she would laugh at me."
"It isn't certain at all. And, do you know, it almost seems to me a point of honour."