“Well, all I have to say is, don't do it till I 'm off the premises; for I 'd not be here when he reads it for a trifle. My dear Digby,” said he, with a changed tone, “you don't know Sir Roger; you don't know the violence of his temper if he imagines himself what he calls outraged, which sometimes means questioned. Take your hat and stick, and go seek your fortune, in Heaven's name, if you must; but don't set out on your life's journey with a curse or a kick, or possibly both. If I preach patience, my dear boy, I have had to practise it too. Put up your traps in your portmanteau; come down and take some dinner: we 'll start with the night-train; and take my word for it, we 'll have a jolly ramble and enjoy ourselves heartily. If I know anything of life, it is that there's no such mistake in the world as hunting up annoyances. Let them find us if they can, but let us never run after them.”
“My heart is too heavy for such enjoyment as you talk of.”
“It won't be so to-morrow, or, at all events, the day after. Come, stir yourself now with your packing; a thought has just struck me that you 'll be very grateful to me for, when I tell it you.”
“What is it?” asked I, half carelessly.
“You must ask with another guess-look in your eye if you expect me to tell you.”
“You could tell me nothing that would gladden me.”
“Nor propose anything that you'd like?” asked he.
“Nor that, either,” said I, despondingly.
“Oh, if that be the case, I give up my project; not that it was much of a project, after all. What I was going to suggest was that instead of dining here we should put our traps into a cab, and drive down to Delorme's and have a pleasant little dinner there, in the garden; it's quite close to the railroad, so that we could start at the last whistle.”
“That does sound pleasantly,” said I; “there's nothing more irksome in its way than hanging about a station waiting for departure.”