There was no help for it.
"I was dining out, Jack."
Andy's tone became as airy as he could make it, as careless, as natural. His effort in this kind was not a great success.
"Harry Belfield asked me to Halton."
A short silence followed. They were good fellows, one and all of them; nobody had a jibe for him; the envy, if envy there were, was even as his own for Harry Belfield. Cox looked round and raised his glass.
"'Ere's to you, Andy! You went to the war, you went to foreign parts. If you've learned a bit and got on a bit, nobody in Meriton's goin' to grudge it you—least of all them as knew your good father, who was a gentleman if ever there was one—and I've known some of the best, consequent on my business layin' mainly with 'orses."
"Dined at Halton, did you?" Old Jack Rock beamed, then suddenly grew thoughtful.
"Well, of course, I've always known Harry Belfield, and—" He was apologizing.
"The old gentleman used to dine there—once a year reg'lar," Jack reminded him. "Quite right of 'em to keep it up with you." But still Jack looked thoughtful.
Eleven-thirty sounded from the squat tower of the long low church which presided over the west end—the Fyfold end—of High Street. Old Cox knocked out his pipe decisively. "Bedtime!" he pronounced.