“I’ve a lot more to say, only I can’t think of it. I never can. But it’s there. Inside my head. On the letter paper you and he will have your names above the line, and mine will be below it.”
“That merely shows that I know where to draw the line. I wish you did.”
“It’s not for myself I mind so much. It’s those dear little books of mine. All bound in lilac morocco. Sitting down. It’s just as if they were slighted. If this kind of thing goes on, I shan’t play any more.”
“I’m not asking you to. But you can return to your work. And you remind me. I have had a bill from the binders of those books sent in to the firm’s account. I have explained that this should be charged to your private account. You will get it in due course. Close the door quietly, please, as you go out.”
On his way back to his own room Luke again encountered Arthur Dobson.
“It’s all right,” said Luke, “I said you didn’t tell me, but had given it away by blushing when I chanced to speak of it.”
“Couldn’t you have thought of a better one than that?”
“Oh, it’s all right. And I don’t mind telling you I’ve given him a pretty good dressing-down. I let him have the rough side of my tongue.”
“Ah,” said Dobson, “now that really is something like a lie.”
Luke went back to his own room and sat there deep in thought. Why was everybody so hard and cold? Diggle, Dobson, Mabel—they were all so cruel and rude to him. Nobody loved him. Except Dot and Dash, and possibly ...