"Eh?" cried Lord Marshmoreton, forgetting the thread of his
discourse in the shock of pleased surprise.
"You don't look a day over forty."
"Oh, come, come, my boy! . . . I mean, Mr. Bevan."
"You don't honestly."
"I'm forty-eight."
"The Prime of Life."
"And you don't think I look it?"
"You certainly don't."
"Well, well, well! By the way, have you tobacco, my boy. I came
without my pouch."
"Just at your elbow. Pretty good stuff. I bought it in the village."
"The same I smoke myself."
"Quite a coincidence."
"Distinctly."
"Match?"
"Thank you, I have one."
George filled his own pipe. The thing was becoming a love-feast.
"What was I saying?" said Lord Marshmoreton, blowing a comfortable
cloud. "Oh, yes." He removed his pipe from his mouth with a touch of
embarrassment. "Yes, yes, to be sure!"
There was an awkward silence.
"You must see for yourself," said the earl, "how impossible it is."
George shook his head.
"I may be slow at grasping a thing, but I'm bound to say I can't
see that."
Lord Marshmoreton recalled some of the things his sister had told
him to say. "For one thing, what do we know of you? You are a
perfect stranger.
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