A little decided frown crept between her eyebrows. “I’ve accepted you as a gentleman on trust,” she began, when he broke in:
“Don’t do it. It’s a fearfully depressing thing to be reminded that you’re a gentleman on trust and expected to live up to it. Think how it cramps one’s style, not to mention limiting one’s choice of real estate. A gentleman may stake his future happiness and his hope of a home on the toss of a coin, but he mustn’t presume to want to see the other party to the gamble again, even if she’s the only thing in the whole sweep of his horizon worth seeing. Is that fair? Where is Eternal Justice, I ask you, when such things—”
“Oh, do stop!” she implored. “I don’t think you’re sane.”
“No such claim is put forth on behalf of the accused. He confesses to complete loss of mental equilibrium since—let me see—since 11.15 A.M.”
Here the Mordaunt Estate, who had been doing some shrewd thinking on his own behalf, interposed.
“I’d rather rent to two than one,” he said insinuatingly. “More reliable and steady with the rent. Settin’ aside the young feller’s weak eyes, you’re a nice-matched pair. Gittin’ a license is easy, if you know the ropes. I’d even be glad to go with you to—”
“As to not being married,” broke in the butterfly, with the light of a great resolve in her eye, “this gentleman may speak for himself. I am.”
“Am what?” queried the Estate.
“Married.”
“Damn!” exploded the young man. “I mean, congratulations and all that sort of thing. I—I’m really awfully sorry. You’ll forgive my making such an ass of myself, won’t you?”