“That's a fine 'ead of yours,” he remarked; “all your own? No offence,” continued Jarman, without giving Minikin time for repartee. “I was merely thinking there must be room for a lot of sense in it. Now, what do you, as a practical man, advise 'im: dose of poison, or Waterloo Bridge and a brick?”
“I suppose there's no doubt,” I interjected, “that we are actually engaged?”
“Not a blooming shadow,” assured me Jarman, cheerfully, “so far as she's concerned.”
“I shall tell her plainly,” I explained, “that I was drunk at the time.”
“And 'ow are you going to convince 'er of it?” asked Jarman. “You think your telling 'er you loved 'er proves it. So it would to anybody else, but not to 'er. You can't expect it. Besides, if every girl is going to give up 'er catch just because the fellow 'adn't all 'is wits about 'im at the time—well, what do you think?” He appealed to Minikin.
To Minikin it appeared that if such contention were allowed girls might as well shut up shop.
Jarman, who now that he had “got even” with Minikin, was more friendly disposed towards that young man, drew his chair closer to him and entered upon a private and confidential argument, from which I appeared to be entirely excluded.
“You see,” explained Jarman, “this ain't an ordinary case. This chap's going to be the future Poet Laureate. Now, when the Prince of Wales invites him to dine at Marlborough 'ouse, 'e don't want to go there tacked on to a girl that carries aitches with her in a bag, and don't know which end of the spoon out of which to drink 'er soup.”
“It makes a difference, of course,” agreed Minikin.
“What we've got to do,” said Jarman, “is to get 'im out of it. And upon my sivvy, blessed if I see 'ow to do it!”