All I want to know is whether you're contented?"
"Contented?" he cried. "I should just think I am. I'm the happiest ass
that doesn't eat thistles!"
"Explain yourself, my dear Dale," said I, relapsing into my old manner.
"I'm going to marry Maisie Ellerton."
I took him by the arm and dragged him inside the box.
"Agatha," said I, "leave those confounded dogs for a moment and attend
to serious matters. This young man has not come up to see either of us,
but to obtain our congratulations. He's going to marry Maisie Ellerton."
"Tell me all about it," said Agatha intensely interested.
A load of responsibility rolled off my shoulders like Christian's pack.
I looked at the dog football match with the interest of a Sheffield
puddler at a Cup-tie, and clapped my hands.
An hour or so later after we had seen Agatha home, and Dale had
incidentally chucked Lord Essendale (the phrase is his own), we were
sitting over whisky and soda and cigars in my Victoria Street flat. The
ingenuousness of youth had insisted on this prolongation of our meeting.
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