“Very pretty, by Jove!” said Clayley, in a low voice.
“Pretty indeed!” echoed the major, with one of his customary asseverations.
“Stylish, one ought rather to say, to do it justice.”
“Stylish!” again chimed in the major, repeating his formula.
“Rosewood chairs and tables,” continued Clayley; “a harp, guitar, piano, sofas, ottomans, carpets knee-deep—whew!”
Not thinking of the furniture, I looked around the room strangely bewildered.
“Ha! Ha! what perplexes you, Captain?” asked Clayley.
“Nothing.”
“Ah! the girls you spoke of—the nymphs of the pond; but where the deuce are they?”
“Ay, where?” I asked, with a strange sense of uneasiness.