“Ah, well, we all get married some time or other,” said the visitor, in a careless, unpleasant way.
“Have you got married then, my lad?” said the Churchwarden, reaching a cigar-box from the fireplace cupboard.
“No, not yet,” he replied, “not yet. Cyril and I are particular, eh, Cil, old man? I’ve come over to fetch myself a wife perhaps. Cigar? Yes; thanks. Take one, Cil? Hah! how cosy this old room seems! I’ve spent some pleasant hours here.”
“Ay, you’ve smoked many a pipe with me, Mr Frank. That was when you were in your farming days.”
“Farming days?”
“Ay,” chuckled the Churchwarden, “sowing thy wild oats, my lad.”
“Ha, ha, ha! Why, Portlock, you’re as fond of a joke as ever. Ladies, I hope you won’t mind so much smoking,” he said, puffing away vigorously all the same, while Luke Ross gazed uneasily from one brother to the other, till he caught Cyril looking at him in a haughty, offended manner, when in spite of himself his eyes fell.
“Old folks surprised to see you, eh, sir?” said the Churchwarden, to break the blank in the conversation.
“Yes, preciously,” was the short reply.
“Humph!”