“I'm very glad to see you,” said Sylvester, politely. “Won't you sit down?”
He seated himself in the writing-chair and motioned his guest to another.
“No, thanks, I'll walk about,” said Roderick. “If I sat there I'd feel too much like a patient, and you'd be wanting to look at my tongue or pommel my stomach. I've come, my boyhood's friend, to tell you some good news, to demand your felicitations. I give you a thousand guesses.”
“Have you succeeded in floating your chartered Thelema Company?” asked Sylvester, with a smile.
“Oh, damn the Colony! That is to say, comparatively damn the Colony. You behold in me the happiest man on earth, engaged to the sweetest and loveliest girl in the world. And the Colony's in it for something. So I ought to have said 'thrice bless the Colony.'” Sylvester started in his chair.
“You are not referring to Miss Defries?”
“I am so.”
“I must offer you my congratulations,” said Sylvester, recovering composure. Then despising himself for a momentary pang, which he could not explain to himself, he added: “I am sure she will make you an excellent wife.”
“An excellent wife! Hear him, ye gods! As who should say, 'You will find this a most serviceable umbrella!' She's the dewy dawn of all things sweet to live for!”
“My habit of mind is more prosaic than yours,” laughed Sylvester. “But I think I am none the less accurate. Is Miss Defries going also to Thelema?”