The face of his companion flushed up.
“Jealous of you, my beauty!” she ejaculated, in a tone of contempt. “Don’t flatter yourself, Alf, by such a supposition. We know each other by this time. If we don’t, we never shall. Jealous of you, indeed!”
“Well, there’s no occasion to be petulant or spiteful, Lorry. Don’t lose your temper. Every gentleman must have his private amours, and I like you none the less because I have been carrying on a little innocent flirtation with the farmer’s wife.”
“Love me! I wonder you can make use of such a term,” cried Laura Stanbridge, with something like indignation in her tone.
“We don’t want to quarrel. It wouldn’t answer either of our purposes to do that.”
At this moment there was a knock at the door, and to Fortescue’s “Come in,” the “Smoucher” and the “Cracksman” entered.
“Oh, you’ve got back from Broxbridge, then?” said the latter, in a familiar and half-sneering tone.
“Yes, I have,” answered Fortescue, alias Alf Purvis.
“You’ve bin having a fine time of it, captain. Enjoying yourself like anythink, I s’pose?”
“That’s my business and not yours, my tea-tray friend.”