Mr. James whistled softly; then he said, "What on earth did you do that for?"
"She's a type—wonderful type—the soul of the slums," said Hilary Vance, suddenly awaking to his natural enthusiasm.
"But it must have bored you to extinction," said Mr. James with conviction.
"Oh, it did. But how could I draw the people of the slums without knowing their soul. I'm an artist, James—a conscientious artist," said Hilary Vance warmly.
"And now you'll he a conscientious defendant in a breach of promise case," said Mr. James.
"Horrible! Horrible! Thank Heaven the river is at hand!" cried Hilary Vance.
"If you go on talking about suicide whenever you're in one of your messes, one of these days you'll forget yourself and go and commit it," said Mr. James coldly.
"Well, what am I to do? What else is there but the river?" cried Hilary Vance, getting a firm grip on his abundant hair.
"Well, either you must marry Ermyntrude, or
