While a buzz of voices assured Tony that “it did n't matter; all had money, any one could pay,” and so on, Skeffington gravely handed out his cigar-case, and said, “Take as much as you like, old fellow; it was quarter-day last week.”
In a wild, uproarious burst of laughter they now broke up; some helping Skeffington along, some performing mock-ballet steps, and two or three attempting to walk with an air of rigid propriety, which occasionally diverged into strange tangents.
Tony was completely bewildered. Never was a poor brain more addled than his. At one moment he thought them all the best fellows in the world; he 'd have risked his neck for any of them; and at the next he regarded them as a set of insolent snobs, daring to show off airs of superiority to a stranger, because he was not one of them; and so he oscillated between the desire to show his affection for them, or have a quarrel with any of them.
Meanwhile Mayfair, with a reasonable good voice and some taste, broke out into a wild sort of air, whose measure changed at every moment One verse ran thus:—
“By the light of the moon, by the light of the moon,
We all went home by the light of the moon.
With a ringing song
We trampled along,
Recalling what we 'll forget so soon,
How the wine was good,
And the talk was free,
And pleasant and gay the company.
“For the wine supplied
What our wits denied,
And we pledge the girls whose eyes we knew, whose eyes we knew.
You ask her name, but what's that to you, what's that to you?”
“Well, there 's where she lives, anyhow,” muttered Tony, as he came to a dead stop on the road, and stared full at a small two-storeyed house in front of him.
“Ah, that's where she lives!” repeated Mayfair, as he drew his arm within Tony's, and talked in a low and confidential tone.
“And a sweet, pretty cottage it is. What a romantic little spot! What if we were to serenade her!”
Tony gave no reply. He stood looking up at the closed shutters of the quiet house, which, to his eyes, represented a sort of penitentiary for that poor imprisoned hardworking girl. His head was not very clear, but he had just sense enough to remember the respect he owed her condition, and how jealously he should guard her from the interference of others. Meanwhile Mayfair had leaped over the low paling of the little front garden, and stood now close to the house. With an admirable imitation of the prelude of a guitar, he began to sing,—
“Come dearest Lilla,
Thy anxious lover
Counts, counts the weary moments over—”