“And does he weigh up to it?” she inquired.
“Fourteen, twelve, and three-quarters.”
“What's that in pounds, Ri? We don't count people in stones in America.”
A tense frown, a nervous twitching of the lip, and in an instant the young financier produced the answer:
“Two hundred and nine pounds all but four ounces.”
“Well,” said Eleanor, “it all depends on how he holds himself. That's a lot to carry for a young man.”
“He holds himself like one of his native pine-trees, Miss Maddison!”
She clapped her hands.
“Now I call that just a lovely metaphor, Count Bunker!” she cried. “Oh, if he's going to look like a pine, and walk like the pipers at the Torrydhulish gathering, and really be a chief like Fergus MacIvor or Roderick Dhu, I do believe I'll actually fall in love with him!”
“Say, Count,” interposed Ri, “I guess we've heard he's half German.”