"I think some time in October, very likely," replied Eugene.
"Jesus Christ, I'm sorry to hear that," put in Smite.
He laid down his brush and strolled over to the window. MacHugh, less expressive in extremes, worked on medatively.
"When'd you reach that conclusion, Witla?" he asked after a time.
"Oh, I've been thinking it over for a long time, Peter," he returned. "I should really have married before if I could have afforded it. I know how things are here or I wouldn't have sprung this so suddenly. I'll hold up my end on the rent here until you get someone else."
"To hell with the rent," said Smite. "We don't want anyone else, do we, Peter? We didn't have anyone else before."
Smite was rubbing his square chin and contemplating his partner as if they were facing a catastrophe.
"There's no use talking about that," said Peter. "You know we don't care about the rent. Do you mind telling us who you're going to marry? Do we know her?"
"You don't," returned Eugene. "She's out in Wisconsin. It's the one who writes the letters. Angela Blue is her name."
"Well, here's to Angela Blue, by God, say I," said Smite, recovering his spirits and picking up his paint brush from his board to hold aloft. "Here's to Mrs. Eugene Witla, and may she never reef a sail to a storm or foul an anchor, as they say up Nova Scotia way."