“No idea,” said George.
“I got hold, my dear fellow, of Duprez, the Paris milliner, and Pelissier, the woman from the bonnet shop in Grafton Street, and between us we turned out that gal a very tolerable imitation of Grandmother Dorset. And as I had a genuine interest in the gal for her own sake, for she is a very nice simple gal, I took her about to let her see something of London, so that she might get a few ideas about things in general.”
“Ye-es,” said George.
“You see, my dear fellow, what I said to Caroline was this.” Cheriton again looked about him to discover the proximity of his fellow-members, and assumed a very confidential air. “‘With a bit of luck, and if you can play your cards as well as you used to, that gal might marry. She hasn’t a penny, of course, and she is of no particular family, but she is not at all a bad style of gal when she has on a pretty frock. In fact, Caroline,’ I said, ‘in my opinion she is just the sort of gal to catch a brewer or a stockholder or one of these new men with money.’”
“Ye-es,” said George.
“And now, my dear fellow,” said his friend, more confidentially than ever, “what do you think that old Jesuit does? I put it to you, George.”
“No idea,” said George.
“Finding the gal has not gone off as she ought, she turns round on me.”
“You!” said George, with stolid surprise.
“Yes, my dear fellow, turns round on me, and has the effrontery to expect me—me, George—to marry her.”