I’ve often wondered what she’d a’ said, if he’d up and put the case to her plain, for she was a good sort; but, naturally enough, her head was a bit swelled, and she’d read so much rot about herself in the papers that she’d got at last to half believe some of it. The thought of her
connection with the well-known judge seemed to hamper her at times, and she wasn’t quite so chummy with “Kipper” as used to be the case in the Mile-End Road days, and he wasn’t the sort as is slow to see a thing.
One day when he was having lunch by himself, and I was waiting on him, he says, raising his glass to his lips, “Well, ’Enery, here’s luck to yer! I won’t be seeing you agen for some time.”
“Oh,” I says. “What’s up now?”
“I am,” he says, “or rather my time is. I’m off to Africa.”
“Oh,” I says, “and what about—”
“That’s all right,” he interrupts. “I’ve fixed up that—a treat. Truth, that’s why I’m going.”
I thought at first he meant she was going with him.
“No,” he says, “she’s going to be the Duchess of Ridingshire with the kind consent o’ the kid I spoke about. If not, she’ll be the Marchioness of Appleford. ’E’s doing the square thing. There’s going to be a quiet marriage to-morrow at the Registry Office, and then I’m off.”
“What need for you to go?” I says.