“You know Horace Holloway; we were up at his place once for the night. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember his place well enough; but he hadn’t got in when we came, and hadn’t got up when we left, so his features aren’t as distinctly imprinted on my memory as they might be.”
“That’s so,” said Burnett, pushing aside the curtains that concealed the foot of the wee stair; “I’d forgotten. Well, you’ll meet him to-night, anyhow; he came on the five-five. Holly’s a nice fellow, only he’s so darned over-full of good advice that he keeps you feeling withersome.”
Jack laughed.
“Did he ever give you any advice?” he asked.
“Why?”
“I don’t recollect your taking it.”
“I never take anything,” said Burnett; “I consider it more blessed to give than to receive—as regards good advice anyhow.”
“Who will I have for dinner?” Jack asked presently, glancing around to see if there were any silver tissues or distracting curls in sight.
“Well,” his friend replied, rather hesitatingly, “you must expect to balance up for last night, I reckon.”