“And so one has sometimes to talk to oneself.”
This was said so sadly that Moggridge began to feel uncomfortably affected.
“Ah, Moggridge, one cannot always keep silence, even when one least wants to be overheard. Have you ever been in love, Moggridge?”
The burly keeper changed countenance a little at this embarrassingly direct question, and answered diffidently, “Well, sir, to be sure men is men and woming will be woming.”
“The deuce, they will!” replied Mr Beveridge, cordially; “and it’s rather hard to forget ’em, eh?”
“Hindeed it is, sir.”
“I remembered this afternoon, but I should like you as a good chap to forget. You won’t mention my moment of weakness, Moggridge?”
“No, sir,” said Moggridge, stoutly. “I suppose I hought to report what I sees, but I won’t this time.”
“Thank you,” said Mr Beveridge, pressing his arm. “I had, you know, a touch of the sun in India, and I sometimes talk when I shouldn’t. Though, after all, that isn’t a very uncommon complaint.”
And so it happened that no rumour prejudicial either to his sanity or to the progress of his friendship with the Lady Alicia reached the ears of the authorities.