"
"I'm dying to hear, dear boy; so go on."
And at this Scone Dacres began his story.
CHAPTER VIII.
A MAD WIFE.
"I'll tell you all about it," said Scone Dacres; "but don't laugh, for
matters like these are not to be trifled with, and I may take
offense."
"Oh, bother, as if I ever laugh at any thing serious! By Jove! no. You
don't know me, old chap."
"All right, then. Well, to begin. This wife that I speak of happened
to me very suddenly. I was only a boy, just out of Oxford, and just
into my fortune. I was on my way to Paris--my first visit--and was
full of no end of projects for enjoyment. I went from Dover, and in
the steamer there was the most infernally pretty girl. Black,
mischievous eyes, with the devil's light in them; hair curly, crispy,
frisky, luxuriant, all tossing over her head and shoulders, and an
awfully enticing manner. A portly old bloke was with her--her father,
I afterward learned. Somehow my hat blew off. She laughed. I laughed.
Our eyes met. I made a merry remark. She laughed again; and there we
were, introduced. She gave me a little felt hat of her own. I fastened
it on in triumph with a bit of string, and wore it all the rest of the
way.
"Well, you understand it all. Of course, by the time we got to Calais,
I was head over heels in love, and so was she, for that matter. The
old man was a jolly old John Bull of a man. I don't believe he had the
slightest approach to any designs on me. He didn't know any thing
about me, so how could he? He was jolly, and when we got to Calais he
was convivial.
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