“A sail with my friends the Finches.”
“My friends, if you please, Mr. Price.”
“To be sure; I quite forgot. Doosid nice people. I say, I am making the running, and I mean to win, as we say in the race-course, ‘hands down.’”
“Ahem! It doesn’t follow that if you win the daughter you’ll get over the father,” I observed with a knowing air.
“Oh! I’m not going to trouble myself about him. You’ll square him for me.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Price?” almost aghast at this cool impudence.
“I mean that old fogies understand one another. You’ll rub it into him that I am a man of considerable genius; of keen perception, calm deliberation; in the habit of hand-balancing conflicting propositions, a brilliant orator, and that I have tact, which is better than talent, and audacity, which is better than either or both.”
“If I were to speak about you at all to my friend Mr. Finche, I should certainly pay a glowing tribute to this last quality,” sneeringly.
“That’s a good fellow. You’re a brick of the most adhesive quality. You go for Finche when I give you the word. I mean to pop for Hattie the first good chance.”
“Well, really, I—”