“Because I couldn’t help it, I suppose.”
“But you’ve got to help it. See here now, Justin, I can’t keep you in leading-strings. You are such a great baby, you have no control over yourself. You’re quite big enough, and—”
“Ugly enough? Yes, go on.”
“No, the other thing—only I’m spoiling you too much, and making you abominably conceited. Now come in, and give me just one little kiss before you start, and then I think you really had better go.”
“Promise me you won’t go away without letting me know,” he urged, when the above-named process—which, by the way, was not of such very diminutive proportions as she had suggested—had been completed. Outside, Blachland’s voice directing the native servants was plainly audible.
“Yes, I promise. Now, go and say good-bye, and get your horse. No, not ‘one more.’ Do be a little prudent.”
“Eh? Want to saddle up, Spence?” said Blachland, as Justin went over to where he was occupied. “All right. I say, though, excuse me; I really am rather busy. Come along, and we’ll get out your horse. Have a drink before you start.”
“Thanks awfully, Blachland, I’ve just had one. Good-bye, old chap, don’t bother to come to the stable. Good-bye.”
The other took a side glance at his retreating guest.
“He’s flurried,” he said to himself. “These callow cubs don’t know how to play the game. They do give it away so—give it away with both hands.”