"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—"
Cluny's similes failed to come.
"Like a fox and a deer on the same trail?"
"I don't understand that. Like a yeomanry steeplechase to Sandown—is that it? Belward, I'm sorry. Playing it so low on a chap you like!"