“Well?” said Mrs. Boxer, at last.
“All that he said was quite true,” said her husband, defiantly. “The only thing is, he didn’t tell the arf of it. Altogether, I married three dusky maidens.”
Everybody but Mr. Thompson shuddered with horror.
“Then I married a white girl in Australia,” pursued Mr. Boxer, musingly. “I wonder old Silver didn’t see that in the bowl; not arf a fortune-teller, I call ’im.”
“What they see in ’im!” whispered the astounded Mr. Thompson to his wife.
“And did you marry the beautiful girl in the photograph?” demanded Mrs. Boxer, in trembling accents.
“I did,” said her husband.
“Hussy,” cried Mrs. Boxer.
“I married her,” said Mr. Boxer, considering—“I married her at Camberwell, in eighteen ninety-three.”
“Eighteen ninety-three!” said his wife, in a startled voice. “But you couldn’t. Why, you didn’t marry me till eighteen ninety-four.”