“Well—er—er—yes,” said Retort, stammering, “er—er at present, you know—at present.”
“Why, you don’t mean to say—” I burst out.
“Hush, my dear fellow! don’t speak so loud.”
“That you’ve proposed to Miss Visite?”
“Well—er—yes, my dear sir, I have,” simpered the great booby.
“Then I congratulate you,” I exclaimed. “Here, Nelly,” I said, running towards the door.
“No, no, no—don’t, don’t, there’s a good fellow,” cried Retort, dragging me back towards the table; “don’t call Mrs Scribe. Let me break it to her gently some other time. I’d rather do it myself.”
“Just as you like,” I said, good-humouredly; and then I toasted the future Mrs Retort’s most honoured name.
“Well,” continued Retort, drawing forth his catalogue, “I was telling you that I bid for a few lots, but those fellows run them up so, that I couldn’t get a thing.”
“Yes, it was too bad,” I muttered, fumbling in my pocket for my catalogue, to find that I had left it in the coat I had taken off.