“I don’t know,” said the other, frankly; “the tamest thing you can think of. There’s Daly laughing in his sleeve at you, and talking to Venia about Waterloo and the Crimea as though he’d been there. I thought it was pretty near settled between you.”
“So did I,” said Mr. Blundell.
“You’re a big man, John,” said the other, “but you’re slow. You’re all muscle and no head.”
“I think of things afterward,” said Blundell, humbly; “generally after I get to bed.”
Mr. Turnbull sniffed, and took a turn up and down the room; then he closed the door and came toward his friend again.
“I dare say you’re surprised at me being so anxious to get rid of Venia,” he said, slowly, “but the fact is I’m thinking of marrying again myself.”
“You!” said the startled Mr. Blundell.
“Yes, me,” said the other, somewhat sharply. “But she won’t marry so long as Venia is at home. It’s a secret, because if Venia got to hear of it she’d keep single to prevent it. She’s just that sort of girl.”
Mr. Blundell coughed, but did not deny it. “Who is it?” he inquired.
“Miss Sippet,” was the reply. “She couldn’t hold her own for half an hour against Venia.”