"Well, yes—that's one way of putting it, if you like!" returned Garth, his patience beginning to give way. "Great Scot, man! You can't expect to have sentiment thrown in, too, in matters of this kind! What do most girls marry for? Why, a comfortable home, of course. And when they marry for anything else, such as a fine figure or a twinkling eye or a handsome pair of moustaches, what is the result? When the tax-collector and the butcher's and baker's bills come in at the door, love flies out at the window. It's all a matter of money and expediency. They manage these things much better here in France."
"You forget," said Wallace, "that, when I wrote to my uncle a week ago, I described myself as already married. Even if this paragon of a bride can be discovered, there would be, I suppose, some necessary delay before the ceremony could be performed——"
"About three weeks."
"Just so. And my wily old uncle has requested me to bring my certificate with me."
"That might be arranged. A little mistake as to the date, and the necessary delay before your wife is strong enough to travel—remember, you said she was starving, and a girl doesn't get over that in a day."
"And, after all this, where is the girl?"
The Captain recommenced pulling his white moustache and glanced at the initials scrawled in pencil on his cuff.
"I have a friend in the town," he began again, after a few seconds' reflection. "Talented man—Oxford man—but down on his luck. His daughters are good-looking girls and very much admired. The younger one is really handsome, a big blonde, very fine girl indeed—Nanny Westbrook. I could take you round this evening and introduce you."
"How old is she?"