Aggett liked to generalize on this his favourite subject. His aids to the imagination and the care he took that his friend’s glass should not long remain empty produced in Ordith a brightening of the eyes and a certain fixity of smile. From the state of mind of which these were the outward signs Aggett drew vicarious pleasure. He explained, with careful avoidance of personalities which Ordith might have resented, his theory of the advantages to be obtained by impetuous attack upon girls of the difficult kind.
“No good hummin’ and hawin’ from t’other end of the room. They can hum and haw better than any of us. ‘Engage the enemy more closely.’ That’s the signal. I always have a feelin’ with the villain in the story-books. I like the breakin’ of these proud young things.”
Never a word of Margaret herself.
Ordith was scarcely listening now, but, as the speaker intended, his thoughts followed Aggett’s, though with change of phrase and manner—followed them through the succeeding talk until at last he rose to go.
“Go an’ prosper, sonny,” Aggett said; “an’ Ibble an’ Ordith’s and all thy gods go with thee.”
Ordith started on his way to the Fane-Herbert’s. It was irritating to one on his quest to be reminded of the assistance of these gods. He didn’t like to think of Margaret in their net—compelled. “She’s got no one to talk to,” Aggett had said. “It ain’t jus’ a pers’nal question. He’s got Ibble’s behind him.... The girl don’t stand a chance.” Poor little Margaret! Poor little——
But Ordith dragged himself out of that slough.
“Ass!” he said. “No good whining that drivel. Too many cocktails.”
He took off his hat, stood still, and gathered self-control. Then, looking at his hat, he thought it a pity that he was not in uniform. Even upon Margaret, used to it as she was, the blue and gold would have produced effect. As he approached the house his mind was clear and calm.