“Good heavens!” Roger exclaimed, in tones of the liveliest consternation. “Alec! And an hour and a half before it need be! What’s wrong with you this morning, Alec?”
“I might ask the same of you,” grinned the young man. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you down before ten o’clock since we came here.”
“That only gives us three mornings. Still, a palpable point. By the way, where’s our worthy host? I thought it was a distressing habit of his to spend an hour in the garden every morning before breakfast; at least, so he was telling me at great length yesterday afternoon.”
“I don’t know,” said Alec indifferently. “But what brings you here anyway, Roger?”
“Me? Oh, I’ve been working. Studying the local flora and fauna, the latter ably represented by William. You know, you ought to cultivate William, Alec. You’d have a lot in common, I feel sure.”
They fell into step and strolled among the scattered beds.
“You working at this hour?” Alec remarked. “I thought you wrote all your tripe between midnight and dawn.”
“You’re a young man of singular literary acuteness,” sighed Roger. “Hardly anybody would dare to call my work tripe. Yet you and I know that it is, don’t we? But for goodness’ sake don’t tell anyone else your opinion. My income depends on my circulation, you know; and if it once got noised about that Alexander Grierson considered——”
Alec landed a punch on the literary thorax. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, shut up!” he grunted. “Don’t you ever stop talking, Roger?”
“Yes,” Roger admitted regretfully. “When I’m asleep. It’s a great trial to me. That’s why I so much hate going to bed. But you haven’t told me why you’re up and about so early?”