Herbert Karne watched them with some disapproval, for, however much he liked Dr. Milnes as a friend, he scarcely cared to regard him in the light of Celia’s lover. When dinner was over, he invited him to have a hundred up in the billiard-room before they rejoined the ladies, and Geoffrey, although a little bit surprised, readily agreed. The artist, however, had not the slightest desire for a game, and, after knocking the balls aimlessly about, put down his cue, and meditatively lit a cigar.
“I say, old man, I want to ask you a straight question,” he said; “will you give me a straight answer?”
Geoffrey Milnes looked surprised. “Certainly, if I can,” he replied, as he struck a match. “What is it? Fire away.”
“Well, it’s simply this. Have you been talking any nonsense to my sister?”
Geoffrey coloured up. “It depends on what you consider nonsense,” he replied. “Our conversations are not often of a weighty description, I admit, but——” He finished off with a shrug.
“You know what I mean,” broke in Karne, impatiently. “It has been brought to my knowledge that you have been indulging in a flirtation with Celia. I simply want to know if there is any truth in it or not?”
The young doctor looked him straight in the eyes. “There is no truth in it whatsoever,” he answered. “I hate flirtation, for it is not only in bad taste, but it is cruel also, and I never go in for it in the slightest degree. But as we are on the subject, Karne, I may as well tell you that I do love your sister very dearly—she is the one girl in the world for me; and, if all goes well, I hope, some day, to win her for my wife.”
“Have you spoken to her yet?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.” Herbert threw down his cigar, and leant against the mantelpiece. “Listen to me, Geoffrey. You are an old friend of mine, and I like you; I don’t know of any fellow that I like better, so I want you to take what I am going to say in good part. Celia is a pretty girl and a thoroughly good girl, but she would not be a suitable wife for you. Firstly, you are a country doctor, and, as the son of the Vicar of Durlston, you have certain social and parochial duties to fulfil, in the performance of which your wife should materially assist. Celia could not do this—she is not adapted to it; and when she has tasted professional and social life in London, I am quite sure that she will not be content to rusticate as a country doctor’s wife. There is no offence meant, Geoff, of course.”