"Out at the elbows—are you mad?"
"The thing would look ill—yet I could make a little running with her," said Roland, with a dreary attempt to be lively.
"I should think so. Ruthven of Ardgowrie out at the elbows—why, man alive, what the devil has come to you? You could marry Miss Darnel without exciting anybody but her special admirers. There is no 'establishment' to break up; no fair denizen of such a villa as is proverbial at St. John's Wood to tear her dyed locks, and demand a monetary kind of 'loot'—so I say again, what the deuce has come to you?" asked Logan, with genuine surprise.
"That which I cannot tell."
"Even to me?" asked the other reproachfully.
"Even to you, old fellow, just yet."
"This passes my comprehension."
"The misfortune that has befallen me passes mine."
"She is a delightful girl, Roland," said Logan, after a pause, during which he had been reflectively preparing another cigar; "she never misses fire in the way of a repartee or a brilliant rejoinder."
"In that I agree with you," replied Roland, quietly.