"We're of a size, and it won't fit you any better than it does me. Our
clothes never fit us in London. Clever idea of yours, Brock, to think of
it. And, here! We'll stop at this shop and pick up a glass. You can
have all day for practice with it. And, I say, Brock, don't you think
you can cultivate a--er--little more of an English style of speech? That
twang of yours won't--"
"Heavens, man, I'm to be a low comedian, too," gasped Brock, as he was
fairly pushed onto the shop. Three minutes later they were on the
sidewalk, and Brock was in possession of an object he had scorned most
of all things in the world,--a monocle.
Arm in arm, they sauntered into the Ritz. Medcroft retained his clasp on
his friend's elbow as they went up in the lift, after the fashion of one
who fears that his victim is contemplating flight. As they entered the
comfortable little sitting-room of the suite, a young woman rose
gracefully from the desk at which she had been writing. With perfect
composure she smiled and extended her slim hand to the American as he
crossed the room with Medcroft's jerky introduction dinging in his ears.
"My old friend Brock, dear. He has consented to be your husband. You've
never met your wife, have you, old man?" A blush spread over her
exquisite face.
"Oh, Roxbury, how embarrassing! He hasn't even proposed to me. So glad
to meet you, Mr. Brock. I've been trying to picture what you would look
like, ever since Roxbury went out to find you.
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