Mr. Sydney H. Corbett came to him with measured questionings and brooding thought stamped on his brows.
“It’s like this,” he said, when they were settled down to details, “I want to get married.”
“To whom?” inquired Claude, wondering at the savage tone in which the announcement was made.
“To Mrs. Hillmer.”
“Oh!”
“That’s what everybody yells the moment I mention it. She screams ‘Oh!’ and runs off with tears in her eyes. Her brother says ‘Oh!’ and looks uncomfortable, but refuses to discuss the proposition. Now you say ‘Oh!’ and gaze at me like an owl at the bare statement. What the dickens does it all mean, I want to know? I’m not worrying about what happened years ago. Mrs. Hillmer is just the sort of woman I require as a wife, and I’ll marry her yet if the whole British nation says ‘Oh!’ loud enough to be heard and answered by the U-nited States.”
“That’s the proper sort of spirit in which to set about the business.”
“Yes, sir; but I can’t get any forrarder. There’s a kind of rock below water which holds me up every time I shoot the rapids. She likes me well enough, I know. She calls me ‘Syd’ as slick as butter, and I call her ‘Gwen’; but there you are—if I want to go ahead a bit she pulls up and weeps. Now, why the—”
“Steady, Mr. Corbett. Women weep for many reasons. Do you know her history?”