Sneyd got up, and walking slowly to the fireplace emitted the casual remark: "Yes, you will, Peake."
He was a man of considerable education, and though in neither force nor astuteness was he the equal of James Peake, it often pleased him to adopt towards his friend a philosophic pose—the pose of a seer, of one far removed from the trivial disputes in which the colliery-owner was frequently concerned.
"Yes, you will, Peake," he repeated.
"I shanna', Sneyd."
"I can read you like a book, Peake." This was a favourite phrase of Sneyd's, which Peake never heard without a faint secret annoyance. "At the bottom of your mind you mean to give that hundred. It's your duty to do so, and you will. You'll let them persuade you."
"I'll bet thee a shilling I don't."
"Done!"
"Ssh!" murmured Mrs Lovatt, "I'm ashamed of both of you, betting on such a subject—or on any subject," she added. "And Ella here too!"
"It's a bet, Sneyd," said Peake, doggedly, and then turned to Lovatt. "What do you say about this, Enoch?"
But Enoch Lovatt, self-trained to find safety in the middle, kept that neutral and diplomatic silence which invariably marked his demeanour in the presence of an argument.