Sir Geoffrey looked intently at his own image, and sighed. “Yes, it does. I shall have to go home and change it.”
“Eh?” said Mr. Warkworth, puzzled. “Change what?
Good God, dear boy, I wasn’t talking about your neck-tie! Wouldn’t dream of saying such a thing to my worst enemy! Bridlington!”
“Oh, him!” said Sir Geoffrey, relieved. “He’s a gudgeon!”
“Oughtn’t to be gudgeon enough to think everyone else is one. Tell you what: wouldn’t do him any good if he did hoax everybody with the bag of moonshine! She’s a devilish fine girl, the little Tallant, and if you ask me she wouldn’t have him if he were the only man to offer for her.”
“You can’t expect him to know that,” said Sir Geoffrey. “I shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t a suspicion he’s a dead bore: in fact, he can’t have! Stands to reason: wouldn’t prose on as he does, if he knew it!”
Mr. Warkworth thought this over. “No,” he pronounced at last. “You’re wrong. If he don’t know he’s a dead bore, why does he want to frighten off everyone else? Havey-cavey sort of a business: don’t like it! a man ought to fight fair.”
“It ain’t that,” replied Sir Geoffrey. “Just remembered something: the little Tallant don’t want it to be known she’s as rich as a Nabob. Fleetwood told me: tired of being courted for her money. They were all after her in the north.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Warkworth. He asked with vague interest: “Where does she come from?”
“Somewhere up north: Yorkshire, I believe,” said Sir Geoffrey, inserting a cautious finger into one of the folds of his neck-tie, and easing it a trifle. “I wonder if that’s better?”