Wilson screwed up his lips and blew forth an expressive stream of smoke.
“What, you are going to be married!”
“Yes. The girl’s husband is dead.”
“The devil he is!”
“There has been a tussle between Garston’s smugglers and the King’s men; the fellow Grimshaw was shot in the scrimmage.”
A look of most unchristian satisfaction spread itself over the painter’s face. He stepped forward and held out his hand.
“I congratulate you, sir—I congratulate you.”
“Thanks, Dick.”
“The stumbling-block is removed out of the path of propriety. And why, if I may ask you, must you be in such an infatuated hurry to be gone?”
“There are reasons, Dick, that I cannot divulge to you.”