"Call his attention—ha, ha!" roared Coombe. "He didn't want much attention called, believe me Scarsdale, and mind you she was worth looking at, the daintiest little bit I've seen for a long while, I can tell you—neat, trim little body, hair as gold—as gold as that sunlight yonder, a demure little face, my word—ask Jobson, hey Jobson?"
"The young woman was certainly prepossessing," said Jobson primly, "and I suppose there's no harm in a man admiring a pretty face and God forbid because I see a pretty face and admire it that any other—thoughts—any other ideas—should enter my head—and—and I don't like your manner, Coombe, it suggests things I do not like—sir, and if you must, have your joke—as you call it, I would be infinitely obliged to you if you would find another subject to joke about than myself."
"Bless my soul!" said Coombe. "Bless my soul, Jobson, what are you going off the deep end for now? I said you saw a pretty girl and admired her and so did I, begad! I'd be a blind fool if I did not! And if you think I'm saying one word against you or the girl either, Jobson, why then—then—hang it then——"
"If you meant no offence, Coombe, then none is taken," said Jobson.
They were good honest fellows, decent, clean minded men and if their talk was mainly of money and of money getting, what did it matter? Scarsdale found no fault with them, he even felt a kind of liking for Mr. Coombe. Coombe was so big, so noisy, so inoffensively vulgar.
"Yes, I say and I ain't ashamed to say, that though I am fifty-nine I can admire a pretty face. Yes, fifty-nine," Coombe swelled out his chest and looked around, expecting that someone would question his age, but no one did. "Though I am fifty-nine, I can still, thank God, admire the beauties of Nature, whether it's a noble landscape, or a sweeping view of the sea or—or a woman's face. I wouldn't be fit to be blessed with my sight if I couldn't admire a pretty face—and that's why, my dear, I admire you," he added as the little serving maid came in with more bread and cheese. "And why I hope that some fine young fellow will come along with his pocket full of money and marry you and make you a good husband."
"How 'ee du talk, sir!" the little maid said, blushing and curtseying; "a rare comic gentleman 'ee du be, sir."
"And——" went on Mr. Coombe when the girl had gone out again, "what I think is the most beautiful thing to see, gentlemen, the finest and noblest of God's created creatures, is a true bred, real English lady. It isn't only her looks, it's her sweet graciousness, her kindness and her friendliness and the dainty way she has of speaking, so's you feel at home and feel as she likes you and that's she's your friend and would do you a kindness if she could. There aren't many of 'em about, leastways it hasn't been my lot to meet 'em—but I've met one now—and—and"—Mr. Coombe paused, he rose, he held up his tankard, "Beer isn't good enough nor would the finest champagne ever vinted be good enough, but it isn't the stuff we drink her health in, it's the feeling, it's the respect, the admiration we feel, gentlemen, that does her honour and perhaps does honour to us too. And so I ask you to drink the health of the finest lady I ever met, the loveliest and best—and I tell you when I look at Lady Kathleen, it makes me proud to remember I'm an Englishman!"
"Hear, hear!" said Cutler and Jobson. "If old Homewood were here, Coombe, he'd love you for that," said Cutler.
Coombe might have been a hundred times more vulgar than he was, louder, commoner, more boisterous, but Scarsdale from that moment on would never see any harm in Coombe. A good fellow, an honest man. What mattered it that he wore white trousers and canvas strapped shoes, a soft felt hat to the golf course, that he perspired freely and that he bellowed like the bull of Bashan, what did it all matter? His heart was in the right place; and so mentally Scarsdale shook Coombe by his jolly big moist hand and thanked him in his heart for his tribute of reverence and respect to the One Woman in all Scarsdale's world.