He laughed a little scornfully, and put it in a detached manner—so.
Mr. Kirke kicked the gate thoughtfully with the air of a man who meditates on a series of gallantries so long that it takes some time to sort them out.
“Far as my experience goes—mind you, I don’t pose as one of your ladies’ men—but so far as my experience goes, I should say, ‘Kiss first and talk afterwards.’ ”
Andy moved a shade farther back into the shadow.
“But supposing you had to write?”
Mr. Kirke took his pipe from his mouth and gazed before him into the soft dark. This was what he liked. He had always been so clever and ingenious that since that hour in his boyhood when he had found he could mend the family clock he had continued to feel himself in a position to give a valuable opinion about everything.
“If I had to write, I should make it short and sweet. Very short and very sweet.”
“But supposing a man had an awful lot to say?” pursued Andy, trying still to sound detached and careless, and throwing a horse chestnut at a shrub to give the impression verisimilitude.
“He could say it after they were married,” replied Mr. Kirke with a chuckle. “Plenty of time then, and to spare.”
“She—she might not have him,” said poor Andy, the inmost fear of his heart forcing its way to his lips.