Wilson stropped his master's razor thoughtfully.
'A trifle elaborate, sir, is it not?' he said.
Rollo thumped the counterpane.
'I knew you'd say that. That's what nine fellows out of ten would say. They'd want to rush it. I tell you, Wilson, old scout, you can't rush it.'
Wilson brooded awhile, his mind back in the passionate past.
'In Market Bumpstead, sir—'
'What the deuce is Market Bumpstead?'
'A village, sir, where I lived until I came to London.'
'Well?'
'In Market Bumpstead, sir, the prevailing custom was to escort the young lady home from church, buy her some little present—some ribbons, possibly—next day, take her for a walk, and kiss her, sir.'