“Let’s have it,” I said.

“Well, the first time I ever saw Millie was in a first-class carriage on the underground.  I’d got a third-class ticket, by the way.  The carriage was full, and I got up and gave her my seat, and, as I hung suspended over her by a strap, damme, I fell in love with her then and there.  You’ve no conception, laddie, how indescribably ripping she looked, in a sort of blue dress with a bit of red in it and a hat with thingummies.  Well, we both got out at South Kensington.  By that time I was gasping for air and saw that the thing wanted looking into.  I’d never had much time to bother about women, but I realised that this must not be missed.  I was in love, old horse.  It comes over you quite suddenly, like a tidal wave. . . .”

“I know!  I know!  Good Heavens, you can’t tell me anything about that.”

“Well, I followed her.  She went to a house in Thurloe Square.  I waited outside and thought it over.  I had got to get into that shanty and make her acquaintance, if they threw me out on my ear.  So I rang the bell.  ‘Is Lady Lichenhall at home?’ I asked.  You spot the devilish cunning of the ruse, what?  My asking for a female with a title was to make ’em think I was one of the Upper Ten.”

“How were you dressed?” I could not help asking.

“Oh, it was one of my frock-coat days.  I’d been to see a man about tutoring his son, and by a merciful dispensation of Providence there was a fellow living in the same boarding-house with me who was about my build and had a frock-coat, and he had lent it to me.  At least, he hadn’t exactly lent it to me, but I knew where he kept it and he was out at the time.  There was nothing the matter with my appearance.  Quite the young duke, I assure you, laddie, down to the last button.  ‘Is Lady Lichenhall at home?’ I asked.  ‘No,’ said the maid, ’nobody of that name here.  This is Lady Lakenheath’s house.’  So, you see, I had a bit of luck at the start, because the names were a bit alike.  Well, I got the maid to show me in somehow, and, once in you can bet I talked for all I was worth.  Kept up a flow of conversation about being misdirected and coming to the wrong house.  Went away, and called a few days later.  Gradually wormed my way in.  Called regularly.  Spied on their movements, met ’em at every theatre they went to, and bowed, and finally got away with Millie before her aunt knew what was happening or who I was or what I was doing or anything.”

“And what’s the moral?”

“Why, go in like a mighty, rushing wind!  Bustle ’em!  Don’t give ’em a moment’s rest or time to think or anything.  Why, if I’d given Millie’s Aunt Elizabeth time to think, where should we have been?  Not at Combe Regis together, I’ll bet.  You heard that letter, and know what she thinks of me now, on reflection.  If I’d gone slow and played a timid waiting-game, she’d have thought that before I married Millie, instead of afterwards.  I give you my honest word, laddie, that there was a time, towards the middle of our acquaintance—­after she had stopped mixing me up with the man who came to wind the clocks—­when that woman ate out of my hand!  Twice—­on two separate occasions—­she actually asked my advice about feeding her toy Pomeranian!  Well, that shows you!  Bustle ’em, laddie!  Bustle ’em!”