“What a bore! How?” said Dick Stamford.
“Oh, got it strained a bit,” said Andy. “Soon be all right.”
“Well, we’ll have a smoke instead,” said Stamford, drawing a chair to the empty fireplace and putting his feet on the fender-stool. He was not in the least drunk, but he had taken enough whisky during the day to make him confidential and talkative, and he gave Andy to understand that when he was with the regiment he had enjoyed a gay and lurid past.
“You’re not like some parsons,” he said. “A chap can make a friend of you. You know there are such things as chorus girls—eh? What?”
“The only ones I ever met were dull,” said Andy.
“Dull!” The bare originality of the suggestion struck Stamford dumb. How could a chorus girl be dull?
“Too jolly pleased with themselves to have any sort of humour,” maintained Andy.
“What’s a woman want with a sense of humour?” said Dick Stamford—and it must be owned that there he spoke for his sex.
“Well—the Atterton girls—they’ve got any amount,” suggested Andy.
Stamford leaned forward in his chair.