“And—I am going to marry yonder daughter of the people!”
“Ah! Rumour for once is correct, then?” says the gentleman, to whom the amplification and publication of Rumour brings in £40,000 per annum.
“Yes, I marry the young woman you saw when you wished for a Kodak.”
For once Fanshawe has not a syllable to say: he is dumb.
“You look astonished,” remarks Bertram. “Yet with your principles——”
“Principles be damned!” says Fanshawe. “They must go to the wall when they trample on common sense.”
“But surely for you no class divisions exist?” says Bertram, with some maliciousness. “Therefore of course you will congratulate me as warmly as if my future wife were that abominable thing a duke’s daughter.”
“There ought to be no race-horses, but while there are we put our money on them,” replied Fanshawe. “We must take the world as it is, or cut our throats in it. You are cutting yours with a bowie knife. I will return to my chocolate pot.”
At that instant Mrs. Brown comes down the road out of breath. Annie is out of sight.
“I am come after my daughter, Mr. Bertram, if you please. Soon as I told her ye was here I was that mad with myself, for it flashed across me she’d come and——”