“Can’t you draw upon the uncle for a couple of thousand, at least?” urged Waring, after a considerable silence; “it will be no more to him than a couple of pence—and will save me from—from——”
“What?” asked his companion quietly.
“From,” avoiding his penetrating eye, “a lot of bother and worry.”
“I cannot draw on him now for a penny, beyond the five hundred; but I am sure he will help you when you see him. How soon are you going home?”
“In a week. Hullo!” starting up, “there is the mess bugle. Are you coming over to dinner?”
“No; tell the mess sergeant to send me something.”
“Any champagne? I’d recommend a bottle of the pink wine of France. You are bound to see things more couleur de rose.”
Jervis shook his head with an air of impatient negation.
“Well, I must go and change; but I’ll look you up again, of course, before you turn in.”
Clarence proved as good as his word; besides, he had as yet to receive a certain sum of money. He duly appeared about eleven o’clock, unusually flushed, and in a state of boisterous good humour. He found his former comrade still sitting at their joint writing-table, scribbling notes and servants’ chits.