Minikin removed his left eye and commenced to polish it upon his handkerchief, a habit he had when in doubt. From looking into it he appeared to derive inspiration.
"Take-her-own-part sort of a girl?"
I intimated that he had diagnosed Miss Rosina Sellars correctly.
"Know how much you're earning?"
"She knows I live up here in this attic and do my own cooking," I answered.
Minikin glanced round the room. "Must be fond of you."
"She thinks I'm clever," I explained, "and that I shall make my way.
"And she's willing to wait?"
I nodded.
"Well, I should let her wait," replied Minikin, replacing his eye.
"There's plenty of time before you."
"But she's a barmaid, and she'll expect me to walk with her, to take her out on Sundays, to go and see her friends. I can't do it.
Besides, she's right: I mean to get on. Then she'll stick to me.
It's awful!"
"How did it happen?" asked Minikin.
"I don't know," I replied. "I didn't know I had done it till it was over."
"Anybody present?"
"Half-a-dozen of them," I groaned.
The door opened, and Jarman entered; he never troubled to knock anywhere. In place of his usual noisy greeting, he crossed in silence and shook me gravely by the hand.
"Friend of yours?" he asked, indicating Minikin.
I introduced them to each other.
"Proud to meet you," said Jarman.
"Glad to hear it," said Minikin. "Don't look as if you'd got much else to be stuck up about."
"Don't mind him," I explained to Jarman. "He was born like it."
"Wonderful gift" replied Jarman. "D'ye know what I should do if I 'ad it?" He did not wait for Minikin's reply. "'Ire myself out to break up evening parties. Ever thought of it seriously?"
Minikin replied that he would give the idea consideration.
"Make your fortune going round the suburbs," assured him Jarman.
"Pity you weren't 'ere last night," he continued; "might 'ave saved our young friend 'ere a deal of trouble. Has 'e told you the news?"
I explained that I had already put Minikin in possession of all the facts.
"Now you've got a good, steady eye," said Jarman, upon whom Minikin, according to his manner, had fixed his glass orb; "'ow d'ye think 'e is looking?"
"As well as can be expected under the circumstances, don't you think?" answered Minikin.
"Does 'e know the circumstances? Has 'e seen the girl?" asked Jarman.
I replied he had not as yet enjoyed that privilege. "Then 'e don't know the worst," said Jarman. "A hundred and sixty pounds of 'er, and still growing! Bit of a load for 'im, ain't it?"
"Some of 'em do have luck," was Minikin's rejoinder. Jarman leant forward and took further stock for a few seconds of his new acquaintance.
"That's a fine 'ead of yours," he remarked; "all your own? No offence," continued Jarman, without giving Minikin time for repartee.
"I was merely thinking there must be room for a lot of sense in it.
Now, what do you, as a practical man, advise 'im: dose of poison, or Waterloo Bridge and a brick?"
"I suppose there's no doubt," I interjected, "that we are actually engaged?"
"Not a blooming shadow," assured me Jarman, cheerfully, "so far as she's concerned."
"I shall tell her plainly," I explained, "that I was drunk at the time."
"And 'ow are you going to convince 'er of it?" asked Jarman. "You think your telling 'er you loved 'er proves it. So it would to anybody else, but not to 'er. You can't expect it. Besides, if every girl is going to give up 'er catch just because the fellow 'adn't all 'is wits about 'im at the time--well, what do you think?" He appealed to Minikin.
To Minikin it appeared that if such contention were allowed girls might as well shut up shop.
Jarman, who now that he had "got even" with Minikin, was more friendly disposed towards that young man, drew his chair closer to him and entered upon a private and confidential argument, from which I appeared to be entirely excluded.
"You see," explained Jarman, "this ain't an ordinary case. This chap's going to be the future Poet Laureate. Now, when the Prince of Wales invites him to dine at Marlborough 'ouse, 'e don't want to go there tacked on to a girl that carries aitches with her in a bag, and don't know which end of the spoon out of which to drink 'er soup."
"It makes a difference, of course," agreed Minikin.
"What we've got to do," said Jarman, "is to get 'im out of it. And upon my sivvy, blessed if I see 'ow to do it!"
"She fancies him?" asked Minikin.
"What she fancies," explained Jarman, "is that nature intended 'er to be a lady. And it's no good pointing out to 'er the mistake she's making, because she ain't got sense enough to see it."
"No good talking straight to her," suggested Minikin, "telling her that it can never be?"
"That's our difficulty," replied Jarman; "it can be. This chap"--I listened as might a prisoner in the dock to the argument of counsel, interested but impotent--"don't know enough to come in out of the rain, as the saying is. 'E's just the sort of chap this sort of thing does 'appen to."
"But he don't want her," urged Minikin. "He says he don't want her."
"Yes, to you and me," answered Jarman; "and of course 'e don't. I'm not saying 'e's a natural born idiot. But let 'er come along and do a snivel--tell 'im that 'e's breaking 'er 'eart, and appeal to 'im to be'ave as a gentleman, and all that sort of thing, and what do you think will be the result?"
Minikin agreed that the problem presented difficulties.
"Of course, if 'twas you or me, we should just tell 'er to put 'erself away somewhere where the moth couldn't get at 'er and wait till we sent round for 'er; and there'd be an end of the matter. But with 'im it's different."
"He is a bit of a soft," agreed Minikin.
"'Tain't 'is fault," explained Jarman; "'twas the way 'e was brought up. 'E fancies girls are the sort of things one sees in plays, going about saying 'Un'and me!' 'Let me pass!' Maybe some of 'em are, but this ain't one of 'em."
"How did it happen?" asked Minikin.
"'Ow does it 'appen nine times out of ten?" returned Jarman. "'E was a bit misty, and she was wide awake. 'E gets a bit spoony, and--well, you know."
"Artful things, girls," commented Minikin.
