“Why, what's the matter, Tom? You're not going to be sick? You look like the devil and all!”
“I'm all right, never fear!” Tom laughed, evading the other's eye. “I'm going out in the country on some business, and I dare say I shall not be back for a couple of days; it will be all up and down the county.” He set down a travelling-bag he was carrying, and offered the other his hand. “Good-by.”
“Can't I go for you? You don't look able.”
“No, no. It's something I'll have to attend to myself.”
“Ah, I suppose,” said Crailey, gently, “I suppose it's important, and you couldn't trust me to handle it. Well—God knows you're right! I've shown you often enough how incompetent I am to do anything but write jingles!”
“You do some more of them—without the whiskey, Crailey. They're worth more than all the lawing Gray and Vanrevel have ever done or ever will do. Good-by—-and be kind to yourself.”
He descended to the first landing, and then, “Oh, Crailey,” he called, with the air of having forgotten something he had meant to say.
“Yes, Tom?”
“This morning at the post-office I found a letter addressed to me. I opened it and—” He hesitated, and uneasily shifted his weight from one foot to the other, with a feeble, deprecatory laugh.
“Yes, what of it?”