Ashby knocked the ashes off his cigar with a reflective look, and said, "I rather think, Harry, that I had better make you my father-confessor."
"All right," said Harry; "that's what I was made for. Go ahead, my son. Confess—out with it. Cleanse your bosom of its perilous stuff: make a clean breast of it."
"Well," said Ashby, "in the first place, I'm just now meditating matrimony."
"Matrimony!"
"Yes; but that's not all. It's a sort of runaway match."
"A runaway match! By Jove! Only think of a fellow like you planning a runaway match! Now if it was me, it would be the proper thing. But is it really to be a runaway match?"
"Well, it amounts to that, for I've asked the girl to clear out from her friends and come with me."
"Well, old fellow, all I can say is, good luck to you both. And please, mayn't I be the best man?" he added, with a droll accent that brought an involuntary smile to Ashby's face. "But go on. Who is the charmer? and where is she now?"
"Well, to answer your last question first, she's here—in Burgos."
"Ah," said Harry, "I twig! Came on in the same train. Both planned it together. You cut across the border, and are made one. Why, it's like Gretna Green!"