"I didn't know you knew him," said Henry.
"Oh yes, he's been here several times. Now if it were _he_ who was going to carry Millie off! You know he's deeply in love with her!"
"Yes, of course. Do you mean to say you didn't see it?"
"Mr. Westcott married?' Mary Cass repeated after him.
"Yes, didn't you know? . . . But Millie knows."
"Oh, years ago, when he was very young. She ran away with a friend of his and he's never heard of her since. She must have been awful!" Henry drew a deep breath of disgust.
"Poor man!" Mary sighed. "Everything's crooked in this beastly world. Nobody gets what he wants."
Mary turned upon him. "Henry, there are times when I positively loathe you. You're nearly the most detestable young prig in London--you would be if you weren't--if you weren't----"
"If I weren't----?" said Henry, blushing. Of all things he hated most to be called a prig.
"If you weren't such an incredible infant and didn't tumble over your boots so often----"
She was gone and he was alone to consider her news. Peter in love with Millie! How had he been so blind? Of course he could see it now, could remember a thousand things! Poor Peter! Henry felt old and protective and all-wise, then remembering the other things that Mary Cass had said blushed again.
"Am I really a prig?" he thought. "But I don't mean to be. But perhaps prigs never do mean to be. What is a prig, anyway? Isn't it some one who thinks himself better than other people? Well, I certainly don't think myself better----"
These beautiful thoughts were interrupted by Millie and, with her, Mr. Baxter.
It may be said at once to save further time and trouble that the two young men detested one another at sight. It was natural and inevitable that they should. Henry with his untidy hair, his badly shaven chin, his clumsy clothes and his crookedly-balancing pince-nez would of course seem to Bunny Baxter a terrible fellow to appear in public with. It would shock him deeply, too, that so lovely a creature as Millie could possibly have so plain a relation. It would also be at once apparent to him that here was some one from whom he could hope for nothing socially, whether borrowing of money, introductions to fashionable clubs, or the name of a new tailor who allowed, indeed invited, unlimited credit. It was quite clear that Henry was a gate to none of these things. On Henry's side it was natural that he should at once be prejudiced against any one who was "dressed up." He admitted to himself that Baxter looked a gentleman, but his hair, his clothes, his shoes, had all of them that easy perfection that would never, never, did he live for a million years, be granted to Henry.