He chuckles throaty. "Nor I," says he. "That is, I'd almost forgotten. You see——"
"I see," says I. "She's one of the discards, eh?"
Sort of jolts him, that does. "Eh?" says he. "A discard? No, no! I—er—I suppose, if I must confess, Torchy, that I am one of hers."
"Gwan!" says I. "You? Look like a discard, don't you? Tush, tush!"
The idea of him tryin' to feed that to me! Why, say, I expect there ain't half a dozen bachelors in town that's rated any higher on the eligible list than Mr. Bob Ellins. It's no dark secret, either. I've heard of whole summer campaigns bein' planned just to land Mr. Robert, of house parties made up special to give some fair young queen a chance at him, and of one enterprisin' young widow that chased him up for two seasons before she quit.
How he's been able to dodge the net so long has puzzled more than me, and up to date I'd never had a hint that there was such a thing for him as a certain party. So I expect I was gawpin' some curious at the picture.
"Huh!" says I, but more or less to myself.
"Not intending any adverse criticism of the young lady, I trust?" remarks Mr. Robert.
"Far be it from me!" says I. "Only—well, maybe the paintin' don't do her justice."
"Rather discreetly phrased, that," says he, chucklin' quiet. "Thank you, Torchy. And you are quite right. No mere painter ever could do her full justice. While the likeness is excellent, the flesh tones much as I remember them, yet I fancy a great deal has escaped the brush,—the queer, quirky little smile, for instance, that used to come at times in the mouth corners, a quick tilting of the chin as she talked, and that trick of widening the eyes as she looked at you. China blue, I think her eyes would be called; rather unusual eyes, in fact."