“Their own fault. Don’t you make a poor man of yourself.”
“Don’t mean to,” said Geoffrey, quietly. “My mistress—my wife, if you like—is Science. Do you like bad smells?”
“Do I like what?”
“Bad smells. Because my chemicals will be down in a few days. I try experiments, and sometimes strong odours arise.”
“Humph!” growled Uncle Paul. “Open the window, then. So your wife’s Science, is she?”
“Bless her: yes,” cried Geoffrey, emphatically. “She’s a tricksy coquette, though.”
“So’s Madge, there,” said the old man.
“Is she?” said Geoffrey, looking at him, curiously. “I say, old gentleman, you are not very complimentary to your relatives; but I understand your hints: so look here. I’m not a lady’s man, and your niece will be free from any pursuit of mine; and if she gets—what do you call it?—setting her cap at me, she’ll give me up in four-and-twenty hours in disgust.”
“On account of Miss Science, eh?” said the old gentleman, grimly. “But I thought you said you were an engineer?”
“I am.”