“Oh yes,” said Booms. “I’ve seen her, and—” here he appeared to undergo a mental struggle—“I like her.”
“At any rate, I’ll sound her on the matter. By the way, she’ll want to know who the ladies are.”
“It’ll only be one this winter, I’m afraid,” said Waterford, “as the Megsons have gone. It’s a Miss Crisp, Cruden, a friend of Booms’s, who—”
“Whom I met the other night at the Shucklefords’?” said Horace.
Booms answered the question with such an agonised sigh that both his companions burst out laughing.
“Dear old Booms can tell you more about her than I can,” said Waterford. “All I know is she’s a very nice girl indeed.”
“I agree with you,” said Horace; “I’m sure she is. You think so too, don’t you, Booms?”
“You don’t know what I think,” said Booms; which was very true.
One difficulty still remained, and this appeared to trouble Horace considerably.
He did not like to refer to it as long as the melancholy masher was present, but as soon as he had gone in to fetch the papers, Horace inquired of his friend,—