It was
Whelpdale's. A month or two ago he had stubbornly refused an
invitation to dine with Whelpdale and other acquaintances--you
remember what the occasion was--and since then the prosperous
young man had not crossed his path.
'I've something to tell you,' said the assailer, taking hold of
his arm. 'I'm in a tremendous state of mind, and want someone to
share my delight. You can walk a short way, I hope? Not too busy
with some new book?'
Biffen gave no answer, but went whither he was led.
'You are writing a new book, I suppose? Don't be discouraged, old
fellow. "Mr Bailey" will have his day yet; I know men who
consider it an undoubted work of genius. What's the next to deal
with?'
'I haven't decided yet,' replied Harold, merely to avoid
argument. He spoke so seldom that the sound of his own voice was
strange to him.
'Thinking over it, I suppose, in your usual solid way. Don't be
hurried. But I must tell you of this affair of mine. You know
Dora Milvain? I have asked her to marry me, and, by the Powers!
she has given me an encouraging answer.
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