“Always,” replied Lammle, glooming considerably under his late treatment.
“Came natural to you, eh?” said Fledgeby.
“The sex were pleased to like me, sir,” said Lammle sulkily, but with the air of a man who had not been able to help himself.
“Made a pretty good thing of marrying, didn’t you?” asked Fledgeby.
The other smiled (an ugly smile), and tapped one tap upon his nose.
“My late governor made a mess of it,” said Fledgeby. “But Geor—is the right name Georgina or Georgiana?”
“Georgiana.”
“I was thinking yesterday, I didn’t know there was such a name. I thought it must end in ina.”
“Why?”
“Why, you play—if you can—the Concertina, you know,” replied Fledgeby, meditating very slowly. “And you have—when you catch it—the Scarlatina. And you can come down from a balloon in a parach—no you can’t though. Well, say Georgeute—I mean Georgiana.”
“You were going to remark of Georgiana—?” Lammle moodily hinted, after waiting in vain.
“I was going to remark of Georgiana, sir,” said Fledgeby, not at all pleased to be reminded of his having forgotten it, “that she don’t seem to be violent. Don’t seem to be of the pitching-in order.”
“She has the gentleness of the dove, Mr. Fledgeby.”