“You are mad to chuck everything at twenty-six years of age. You give up your life at home——”
“I know best what I am giving up,” interrupted his companion impatiently. “I know that I am going back to Hawal Ghât to-morrow. There is nothing to be gained by remaining on here, and Cardozo is staying with my father till I relieve him. I am winding up my affairs, and paying off my servants, except Jan Mahomed, and his son, who are coming with me, and to-morrow I turn my back upon Shirani.”
“Short—sharp—and decisive is the word,” sneered Waring, with bitter emphasis. “Have you got over your good-byes yet?” he added, with pitiless significance.
“No,” becoming rather white, “not yet.”
“I was told at the club that you were engaged to her. Is she to form part of the new scheme? Will marrying her also come under the head of the ‘right thing to do?’ Eh?”
“You may spare your gibes,” said Jervis, sternly. “Miss Gordon is absolutely free. As for myself—I shall never marry.”
“Oh, ho!” with a derisive laugh, “never is a long word. Well, to descend to more prosaic matters, what about these Shirani bills and that five hundred?”
“You shall have it, of course.”
“Yes, you are a man of your word, even if it is a question of a thrashing. I’ll never forget the day that the cad who was ill-using a horse on the towing-path riled you and taunted you; he got hold of the wrong man that time, and no mistake, poor beggar. He never guessed how you could use your fists. You looked so slim and genteel, but you left him with two lovely black eyes.”
Mark made a gesture of protest. Time was precious. What was the use of raking up irrelevant old stories?