“Well, I simply don’t believe it.”
Voules read, with an immobile face, the letters which Sweeting had left with me. At the end he looked up.
“Are you open to a bet?”
“Can’t afford it.”
“Never mind, then.” He rose. “Truth for its own sake will do. Anyhow, I presume you don’t object to countering on Slater?”
“O, do what you like!”
“Thanks. Would you wish to be in at the death?”
“Just as you please.”
“You see,” said he, with a pleasant affectation of righteousness, “if my surmise is correct—and you’re the first one I’ve ventured to confide in—it’s my plain duty to prick a very preposterous bubble. Thank you for lending yourself to the cause of decency. Don’t say anything until you hear from me. Good-bye!”—and he was gone, followed by my inclination, only my inclination, to hurl a book after him.
I sat tight—always the more as I swelled over the delay—till, on the third day following, Sweeting called on me. He came in very shamefaced, but with a sort of suppressed triumph to support his abjectness.