So they left it at that; and the lucky young dog proceeded on foot to the nearest of his clubs, for all that he felt like an airship really; and engaged in a game of snooker pool with two eminent criminal barristers—that is to say, two eminent members of the Common Law Bar—and was very soon the poorer by the sum of two pounds sterling.
Then the young man sat down and wrote a little line to Mary, which ran to four pages, and was absolutely superfluous, because it was really about nothing at all except to remind her that she was the dearest and best, etc. Fortunately he had the good sense to tear it up, so that not one was a penny the worse for an ill-written, and miss-spelt, and hopelessly ungrammatical effusion, and that notwithstanding that the writer had enjoyed all the advantages of a regular classical education. And then Mr. Wingrove sauntered into the Club in his magnificent mannah, and then the floodgates opened.
“I’ve done it, Min.”
The great man was almost afraid the too-familiar groundling would cast himself upon his neck.
“Done what, and why have you done it?” was the unsympathetic inquiry of one whose heart was really as ripe as his judgment.
A long and impassioned recital, of course; and Minnie must help to make it a really great occasion, in order to wipe the eye of No. 88, the corner house.
Mr. Wingrove evinced no particular enthusiasm for this operation, and that was as it should have been, because the attitude of Mr. Philip was fearfully unfilial. Do not for a moment let us pretend it wasn’t. But what was a chap to do?
In the circumstances, perhaps, thought Arminius Wingrove, it would show good feeling to be married by the Registrar.
“I’m hanged if we’ll be,” said Philip, “unless she really wants it; and of course no girl does.”
“Then it appears to me,” said Arminius Wingrove, “that you should go to church as quietly as possible in the absence of your parents.”