“Here I am,” said he, entering with a sort of easy swagger, but far more affected than real, notwithstanding the “dandy.”
“Well, and what then?” asked Conyers, haughtily, for the vulgar presumption of his manner was but a sorry advocate in his favor. “I don't remember, that I sent for you.”
“No; but my father told me what you said to him, and I was to come up and thank you, and say, 'Done!' to it all.”
Conyers turned a look—not a very pleased or very flattering look—at the loutish figure before him, and in his changing color might be seen the conflict it cost him to keep down his rising temper. He was, indeed, sorely tried, and his hand shook as he tossed over the books on his table, and endeavored to seem occupied in other matters.
“Maybe you forget all about it,” began Tom. “Perhaps you don't remember that you offered to fit me out for India, and send me over with a letter to your father—”
“No, no, I forget nothing of it; I remember it all.” He had almost said “only too well,” but he coughed down the cruel speech, and went on hurriedly: “You have come, however, when I am engaged,—when I have other things to attend to. These letters here—In fact, this is not a moment when I can attend to you. Do you understand me?”
“I believe I do,” said Tom, growing very pale.
“To-morrow, then, or the day after, or next week, will be time enough for all this. I must think over the matter again.”
“I see,” said Tom, moodily, as he changed from one foot to the other, and cracked the joints of his fingers, till they seemed dislocated. “I see it all.”