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Chapter seven

It has been said, by those chappies who know me best, that Wilbreham Rungvishna, though in many ways as meat-headed a bloke as ever broke a biscuit, is, in one arena of human affairs, the Einstein of his time. I allude, of course, to being able to see, from a distance of sixty paces inwards, whether a bird I know is under the influence of the tender passion. Old hawk eye about sums it up, what I mean to say is that I've spent so much of life getting chums I know involved with girls, or getting them extracated from the girls they were involved with, or cleaning up the mess when the girl they were involved with handed them the mitten, that I've by way of being cursed with having a sixth sense on the matter. I can recognize love better than anyone, I see and deduce, and form my conclusions, and what-not. So, as I say, I knew that Kimberly was just as head over heels in love with Harry as the later was with the former, and they seemed so good for each other that I wondered why the dickens it was taking them so long to get on with it. The reason: Harry had cold feet, absolutely frozen, I give you my word, and Kimberly was heart-broken over it. She was telling me as much as she cried on my shoulder one day in my office. Reconing for time, I would call it about a week after the events Audrey related in the previous chapter. By the way, I've been reading over Audrey's work, and I consider that she did a topping job of carrying on the story. Very well told, accurate delivery and all that, plus her form was excellent. Sometimes, even the best writers need a break, and ...

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