CHAPTER XVI. RODDICK'S WIFE.
"Well?" demanded Roddick, as Griff thrust his head in at the open window of the Wynyates parlour. "How does marriage go?"
"Like the weather, old man; soft, variable winds, no showers to speak of, and a touch of green showing everywhere."
"Come in, can't you? Why do you stand there with that perennial grin on your face, as if you were posing for a full-length portrait of the happy bridegroom? Away with you newly-married people!"
"Thanks," said Griff, striding over the low window-sill.
"You think the whole world must be looking through your rose-tinted spectacles. Wait till the glass gets smoked, and walk delicately in the meanwhile; you're not a degree higher than a cat on a glass-bottled wall, and if you go prancing along in this style——"
"You are in very good form this morning, Roddick. It does a man good to listen to your breadth of epithet."
"Breadth of epithet! Why talk like a book, Lomax? Call them swears, and have done with it. What have you come for?"
"To be congratulated. I couldn't miss your pretty way of putting things, so here I am, the very morning after my return."