"What do you want me to say? That I don't want to marry Miss Walker or that I do?"
Spinks's face flushed with the rosy dawn of an idea. It was possible that Rickets didn't want to marry her, that he was in need of protection, of deliverance. There was a great deed that he, Spinks, could do for Rickets. His eyes grew solemn as they beheld his destiny.
"Look here," said he, "I want you to tell me nothing but the bally truth. It's the least you can do under the circumstances. I don't want it for her, well—yes I do—but I want it for myself, too."
"All right, Spinky, you shall have the best truth I can give you at such uncommonly short notice. I can't say I don't want to marry Miss Walker, because that wouldn't be very polite to the lady. But I can say I think she's shown most admirable judgement, and that I'm perfectly satisfied with her decision. I wouldn't have her go back, on it for worlds. Will that satisfy you?"
"It would if I thought you really meant it."
"I do mean it, God forgive me. But that isn't her fault, poor little girl. The whole thing was the most infernal muddle and mistake."
"Ah—that was what she called it—a mistake." Spinks seemed to be clinging to and cherishing this word of charm.
"I'm glad for her sake that she found it out in time. I'm not the sort of man a girl like Flossie ought to marry. I ought never to have asked her."
"Upon my soul, Rickets, I believe you're right there. That's not saying anything against you, or against her either."
"No. Certainly not against her. She's all right, Spinky—"