“Yes, a deal better.”
“That’s well. Have a dram of brandy—that’ll set you to rights.”
He passed the bottle towards his companion.
Bill poured himself out a glassful, which he drank off at one gulp.
“You are all right now,” said Peace, “or you ought to be by this time. Pull yourself together, and drop the sentimental.”
“Ah,” murmured the gipsy, “I dare say you think me a weak silly fool, and, indeed, to say the truth, I think so myself. But you must know, Charlie, that I never think of Hester Teige and of the days when I first knew her, without many bitter regrets for the past.”
“Ah, I dare say. It won’t do to give way to this sort of thing. Are you spoony on her now?”
“Spoony be hanged!—she’s nothing to me, and I am nothing to her. Lord bless yer, what can you be thinking about? Why, she’s far above me in every way. What am I, old man? A cadger—a dodger—a miserable wretch who’s not worth her notice.”
“She has noticed you, though,” returned Peace. “Aint she left you two tenners?”
“Ah, true. Well, I rather fancy it would be best for me to return them. Did she leave her address?”