"Have a cigarette, my dear fellow," said I, offering my case to the unfortunate Brasset as soon as the state of my emotions would permit me to do so.
Brasset selected a cigarette with an air of intense melancholy. As he applied the lighted match that was also offered him he favoured me with an eye that was so woebegone that it must have moved a heart of stone to pity. On the contrary, my fellow-pilgrim through this vale of tears had turned a most becoming shade of pink, which she invariably does when she is really out upon the warpath. Also in her china-blue eyes—I hope such a description of these weapons will pass the censor—was a look of grim, unalterable ruthlessness, before which men quite as stout as Brasset have had to quail.
The noble Master took a nervous draw at his Egyptian.
"Look here, Arbuthnot," said he, "you are a wise chap, ain't you?"
"He thinks he's wise," said my helpmeet.
"Every man does," said I, modestly, "not necessarily as an article of faith but as a point of ritual."
"Yes, of course," said Brasset, with an air of intelligence that imposed upon nobody. "But everybody says you are a wise chap. That little Mrs. Perkins says you are the wisest chap she has met out of London."
This indiscretion on the part of Brasset—some men have so little tact!—provoked a stiffening of plumage; and if the china-blue eyes did not shoot forth a spark this chronicle is not likely to be of much account.
"Stick to the point, if you please," said I. "I plead guilty to being a Solomon."
"Well, as you are a wise chap," said the blunderer, "and I'm by way of being an ass——"