“Now, Jack, tell me all about the Devereux—all that you know. She has younger brothers. Has she a sister?”
“She has.”
“Younger?”
“Yes.”
“Anything like your girl?”
“She is not MY girl, Percival. I only wish that she was,” he added with fierce energy.
“You should have seen how she blushed when I asked her if she liked violets.”
“Percival!” exclaimed Pommery, “that was hardly fair.”
“Don’t agitate yourself, old fellow; the subject was handled, as we say at the office, ‘delicately.’ How old are the younger brothers?”
“One is about eighteen.”