"
"Oh, Arthur!" groaned the Curate again, and nodded his head, speechless.
"Beg your pardon--sorry I offended you--but she has got a large waist,
you know--devilish large waist," Pen continued--the third bottle
evidently beginning to act upon the young gentleman.
"It's not Miss Portman," the other said, in a voice of agony.
"Is it anybody at Chatteris or at Clapham? Somebody here? No--it ain't
old Pybus? it can't be Miss Rolt at the Factory--she's only fourteen."
"It's somebody rather older than I am, Pen," the Curate cried, looking up
at his friend, and then guiltily casting his eyes down into his plate.
Pen burst out laughing. "It's Madame Fribsby; by Jove, it's Madame
Fribsby. Madame Frib. by the immortal Gods!"
The Curate could contain no more. "O Pen," he cried, "how can you suppose
that any of those--of those more than ordinary beings you have named
could have an influence upon this heart, when I have been daily in the
habit of contemplating perfection! I may be insane, I may be madly
ambitious, I may be presumptuous--but for two years my heart has been
filled by one image, and has known no other idol.
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