Darwen's eyes glittered strangely. "By Jove, that's it, they can't stick it much longer. Don't you see. Damme! I wouldn't give either of 'em a shift engineer's job."
"He seemed alright when I interviewed him."
Darwen snapped his fingers impatiently. "Bah! He's civil and all that, but he'll never be an engineer."
They pulled up at the diggings, a nice-looking semi-detached villa, with big, bay windows, and a well-kept front garden.
"This is alright," Carstairs commented, "if the grub's any good."
"Leave that to me, old chap. There's a daughter in the house, not bad looking."
"Go steady, Darwen."
"I'm as safe as houses, old chap! She's engaged to a grocer's assistant in the town here, and describes herself as 'a young lady'; 'me and two other young ladies,' you know the sort."
"H'm—ye-es."
They got the luggage stowed away and sat down in the sitting-room, a large room on the second floor with a big, bay window looking out on the quiet tree-shaded road. Some of Darwen's technical books and papers were scattered on the table; there were two big easy chairs and a comfortable-looking couch with numerous cushions scattered about; the carpet was light-coloured and thick. The general tone of the room was light, a sort of drawing-room effect. Probably to the expert feminine eye the curtains and other things were old and cheap, and dirty, and everything dusty. To Carstairs, straight from the dingy north, it appeared a palace. He threw himself into an easy chair and putting his legs up on another, sighed with content.