"It ought to make the fair widow—Mrs. Lorraine, I mean; I'm always thinking of her as a widow—more—obliging," his host commented.
"You're a bit of a beast, Woodside!" Porshinger observed.
"Oh, I don't know!" was the response. "When it comes to that there isn't much choice between us, Charlie, old boy. You know perfectly well it's her face and figure that's the attraction."
"Well, do you blame me?"
"Hell, no!—I rather envy you the chance."
"The chance of what?" asked Porshinger.
"The chance to improve on acquaintance. You have accepted, I presume?"
Porshinger nodded. "If you will excuse me."
"Sure—delighted to facilitate your campaign."
There was just a suspicion of mockery in the words—and Porshinger detected it.