"She's bolted!" said he lugubriously. "Went away Thursday, and wrote to say she wasn't coming back, Friday. It's a fact."
Mr. Hughes put back his foot in it. "Who's she bolted with? Who's the feller?"
Mr. Aiken flushed up quite red, like any turkey-cock. "Damn it, Stump!" said he, "you really ought to take care what you're saying. I should like to see any fellow presume to run away with Euphemia. Draw it mild!" He became calmer, and it is to be hoped was ashamed of his irritability. But really it was Mr. Hughes's fault—talking just like as if it was in a novel, and Euphemia a character.
"I beg your pardon," said that offender humbly. "It was the way you put it. Besides, they are generally supposed to."
Mr. Aiken responded, correctively and loftily: "Yes, my dear fellow, on the stage and in novels." He added, with something of insular pride, "Chiefly French and American."
"What's her little game, then?" asked Mr. Hughes. "If it's not some other beggar, what is it she's run away with?"
"She has not run away with anybody," said Mr. Aiken with dignity. "Nor anything. Perhaps I should explain myself better by saying that she has refused to return from her Aunt's."
"Any reason?" said Mr. Hughes, who wanted to get back to his Idea.
"I'm sorry to say it was my fault, Stumpy," came very penitently from the catechumen.
Interest was roused. "I say, young man," said Mr. Hughes, with a tendency of one eye to close, "what have you been at?"