“Rather than stay here in these circumstances. I see. Yes. I——Do you know, I have felt uncommonly like that myself,” admitted my employer. “That’s what I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. I thought it over last night, as I told you, and I’ve been thinking about it again to-day.”
I wondered what sort of a game of golf he’d played.
“It can’t go on like this!” he said, suddenly stopping in our stroll and facing me in the deepening dusk under the copper-beech. “I can’t stand it. It’s got a—a bit too thick!” he concluded, quite schoolboyishly.
Then he began again, incoherently, indignantly, as if each word he said were a shell that held showers of bullets of other words.
“Theo’s tomfoolery! Those dashed flowers! My uncle and his—his remarks!”
“I know!” I said fervently. He turned on me again, and added unexpectedly, “And you!”
“M-me?”
“Yes!” explosively. “You’re the worst of all—and you do know it! Because I’ve let you in like, this—”
“They’ll hear you from the house—you really are like Theo sometimes.”