“I beg pardon!—the young lady’s, too. But, my dear Dick, I am one of the most even-tempered of men; but if you keep up that miserable fashionable drawl and lisp, I shall take hold of you and shake you.”
“But, my dear fellow—weally, Mawcus.”
“Am I to do it? Say ‘Marcus’ out plain.”
“Mawcus.”
“No! Marcus.”
“Marcus.”
“That’s better. There, hang it all, Dick, you are a soldier; for heaven’s sake be one. Try to be manly, old fellow, and pitch over those silly affectations.”
“It’s all very well for you,” said Dick Millet, in an ill-used tone. “You are naturally manly. Why, you are five feet ten at least, and broad-shouldered and strong.”
“While you are only about five feet two, and slight, and have a face as smooth as a girl’s.”
“Five feet three and a half,” said the other quickly.