“Why, Delia Gasgoyne. I haven’t done the thing quite regular, I know. I ought to have gone to her people first; but they know all about me, and so does Delia, and I’m on the spot, and it wouldn’t look well to be taking advantage of that with her father and mother-they’d feel bound to be hospitable. So I’ve just gone on my own tack, and I’ve come to Agatha and you. Agatha said to ask you if I’d better speak to Delia now.”
“My dear Cluny, are you very much in love?”
“That sounds religious, doesn’t it—a kind of Nonconformist business? I think she’s the very finest. A fellow’d hold himself up, ‘d be a deuce of a swell—and, hang it all, I hate breakfasting alone!”
“Yes, yes, Cluny; but what about a pew in church, with regular attendance, and a justice of the peace, and little Cluny Vosses on the carpet?”
Cluny’s face went crimson.
“I say, Belward, I’ve seen It all, of course; I know It backwards, and I’m not squeamish, but that sounds—flippant-that, with her.”
Gaston reached out and caught the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t do it, Cluny. Spare yourself. It couldn’t come off. Agatha knows that, I fancy. She is a little sportsman. I might let you go and speak; but I think my chances are better than yours, Cluny. Hadn’t you better let me try first? Then, if I fail, your chances are still the same, eh?”
Cluny gasped. His warm face went pale, then shot to purple, and finally settled into a grey ruddiness. “Belward,” he said at last, “I didn’t know; upon my soul, I didn’t know, or I’d have cut off my head first.”
“My dear Cluny, you shall have your chance; but let me go first, I’m older.”
“Belward, don’t take me for a fool. Why, my trying what you go to do is like—is like—”