Chumbley was dropping off to sleep at the same time, and he too was thinking of Helen Perowne, and that nature was guilty of making a great mistake in sending such girls abroad upon the earth.
“In fact,” said Chumbley, who was in a drowsy state of content with the rest, good meals, wine and coffee—“in fact, old fellow, I begin to think that women are a great mistake altogether, and I for one am perfectly cured.”
Sleep spread her drowsy wings over his eyes at this point, and his heretical notions had no farther play, for his slumber was dreamless, and he like his friend passed a calm and pleasant night.
They awoke early, and breakfasted in keeping with their time of rising; after which, finding themselves quite alone, and seeing that they were not watched, they had a good quiet investigation of the place, doing what Chumbley called, “a bit of engineering.”
“Don’t seem feasible at present,” said Chumbley at the end of the look round.
“Unless we could bribe the guards,” replied Hilton.
“Yes, it would only be throwing away energy just at present. Let’s bide a wee, as old Stuart would say. I say, old chap, talk about old Stuart, why don’t you marry his pretty little lassie?”
“Why don’t you keep that Solomon-like intellect of yours to bear on the subject in hand?” retorted Hilton. “I’ve done with women.”
“So have I,” said Chumbley. “I’d turn monk if I were offered a nice cell with good shooting and fishing.”
“You’re a queer fish yourself, Chum,” said Hilton, laughing; “but seriously, we must get away from here. It is perfectly absurd! Kidnapped, and nothing else!”