“Stuff if you like, and prime stuff,” rejoined Hilton. “It’s the sort of stuff of which I like to see men made. I have hopes of you yet, Chumbley. You will turn ladies’ man—grow smooth and refined.”
“And use a pouncet-box, eh?”
“No; I draw the line at the pouncet-box and silk,” laughed Hilton.
“Never mind! Chaff as much as you like, I’d go and help that Inche Maida. By Jove! what a name for a woman?”
“Yes, it is a name for such a fine Cleopatra of a princess. I say, Chum, she seems to have taken quite a fancy to you.”
“To me, eh? Well, I like that! Oh, come!” laughed Chumbley. “Why, I saw her lay her hand upon your arm as if she wanted it to stay there. I’ll swear I saw her squeeze your hand. No, my boy, it was your Hyperion curls that attracted her ladyship.”
“But I’ll vow I saw her take a lot of notice of you, Chum.”
“Yes, but it was because I looked so big; that was all, lad. She’s a sort of hen Frederick William of Prussia, who would adore a regiment of six-feet-six grenadiers. But never mind that; I think she ought to be helped.”
“Yes,” said Hilton, quietly; “but I wish it was Murad who had done the wrong, for then I think that I should feel as warm as you—Well, what is it?”
“Mr Harley wishes to see you directly, sir,” said an orderly.