“I? Good heavens, Allan—do you suppose Betty would consent to be poor?”
“Have you asked her?” inquired Montague.
“I don’t want to ask her, thank you! I’ve not the least desire to live in a hovel with a girl who’s been brought up in a palace.”
“Then what do you expect to do?”
“Well, Betty has a rich aunt in a lunatic asylum. And then I’m making money, you know—and the old boy will have to relent in the end. And we’re having a very good time in the meanwhile, you know.”
“You can’t be very much in love,” said Montague—to which his brother replied cheerfully that they were as much in love as they felt like being.
This was on the train Monday morning. Oliver observed that his brother relapsed into a brown study, and remarked, “I suppose you’re going back now to bury yourself in your books. You’ve got to give me one evening this week for a dinner that’s important.”
“Where’s that?” asked the other.
“Oh, it’s a long story,” said Oliver. “I’ll explain it to you some time. But first we must have an understanding about next week, also—I suppose you’ve not overlooked the fact that it’s Christmas week. And you won’t be permitted to do any work then.”
“But that’s impossible!” exclaimed the other.