"You're not serious? This is one of your solemn jokes—such as you haven't indulged in lately."
"No, no. Listen," said Will, with a rigid earnestness on his face as he bent forward in the chair. "She is poor, and doesn't know how she's going to live. You are flourishing, and have all sorts of brilliant things before you; wouldn't it be a generous thing—the kind of thing one might expect of a fellow with his heart in the right place—? You understand me?"
Franks rounded his eyes in amazement.
"But—am I to understand that she expects it?"
"Not at all. She hasn't in the remotest way betrayed such a thought—be assured of that. She isn't the sort of girl to do such a thing. It's entirely my own thought."
The artist changed his seat, and for a moment wore a look of perturbed reflection.
"How the deuce," he exclaimed, "can you come and talk to me like this when you know I've as good as committed myself—?"
"Yes, and in a wobbling, half-hearted way which means you had no right even to think of committing yourself. You care nothing about that other girl—"
"You're mistaken. I care a good deal. In fact—"
"In fact," echoed Warburton with good-natured scorn, "so much that you've all but made up your mind to go down to Southwold whilst she is there! Bosh! You cared for one girl in a way you'll never care for another."