“Flueyn—pronounced Flynn—he said you never got it right.”
“Does he? I’m sorry. Flueyn? Why, he’s a most excellent fellow. I remember him.”
“Will—he—get on?”
“Yes—of course—bound to—”
“How—much a year will he get on?”
Marcus thought for a moment—Flueyn—excellent chap—fine big fellow—he had rather a terrible laugh: too boisterous in private life, he should say. But he didn’t know him in private life—no question of knowing him—very good worker—very keen—it was quite possible he would get on. But why did this girl want to marry him?
“How—much—?” The tragic eyes were turned upon him; they were pleading eyes, dangerous eyes—the red lips trembled a little—dangerous too—very. How much was going to make such a tremendous difference—the hands tensely clasped said that: the eyes clouded expressed that—the parted lips meant that.
“Of course—I would do anything within my power—but I am not in a—”
“Don’t say that.”
“Don’t cry—it will be all right—tell your mother it will be all right—don’t thank me.”