“I perspire at the bare idea!”
“Not a soul in town—all your friends away in the Highlands boating, or fishing, or shooting grouse—and you pent up in a stifling apartment of eight feet square, with nobody to talk to save the turnkey, and no prospect from the window except a deserted gooseberry stall!”
“O Bob, don’t talk in that way! You make me perfectly miserable.”
“And all this for a ministerial currency crotchet? ’Pon my soul, it’s too bad! I wish those fellows in Parliament——”
“Well? Go on.”
“By Jove! I’ve an idea at last!”
“You don’t say so! My dear Bob—out with it!”
“Dunshunner, are you a man of pluck?”
“I should think I am.”