Mr. Stiles threw himself back in his chair and eyed him with amazement. Then, recovering his presence of mind, he reached out his hand for the bottle.
"We'll drink her health," he said, in a deep voice. "What's her name?"
"Mrs. Dutton," was the reply.
Mr. Stiles, with one hand on his heart, toasted her feelingly; then, filling up again, he drank to the "happy couple."
"She's very strict about drink," said Mr. Burton, eyeing these proceedings with some severity.
"Any—dibs?" inquired Mr. Stiles, slapping a pocket which failed to ring in response.
"She's comfortable," replied the other, awkwardly. "Got a little stationer's shop in the town; steady, old-fashioned business. She's chapel, and very strict."
"Just what you want," remarked Mr. Stiles, placing his glass on the table. "What d'ye say to a stroll?"
Mr. Burton assented, and, having replaced the black bottle in the cupboard, led the way along the cliffs toward the town some half-mile distant, Mr. Stiles beguiling the way by narrating his adventures since they had last met. A certain swagger and richness of deportment were explained by his statement that he had been on the stage.
"Only walking on," he said, with a shake of his head. "The only speaking part I ever had was a cough. You ought to ha' heard that cough, George!"