Vizard had followed the custom of Oxonians among themselves, which is to knock, and then come in, unless forbidden.
“Come,” said he, cheerfully, “those bills. I'm in a hurry to cash them now, and end the only difference we have ever had, old fellow.”
The blood left Severne's cheek and lips for a moment, and he thought swiftly and hard. The blood returned, along with his ready wit. “How good you are!” said he; “but no. It is Sunday.”
“Sunday!” ejaculated Vizard. “What is that to you, a fellow who has been years abroad?”
“I can't help it,” said Severne, apologetically. “I am superstitious—don't like to do business on a Sunday. I would not even shunt at the tables on a Sunday—I don't think.”
“Ah, you are not quite sure of that. There is a limit to your superstition! Well, will you listen to a story on a Sunday?”
“Rather!”
“Then, once on a time there was a Scotch farmer who had a bonny cow; and another farmer coveted her honestly. One Sunday they went home together from kirk and there was the cow grazing. Farmer Two stopped, eyed her, and said to Farmer One, 'Gien it were Monday, as it is the Sabba' day, what would ye tak' for your coow?' The other said the price would be nine pounds, if it were Monday. And so they kept the Sabbath; and the cow changed hands, though, to the naked eye, she grazed on in situ. Our negotiation is just as complete. So what does it matter whether the actual exchange of bills and cash takes place to-day or to-morrow?”
“Do you really mean to say it does not matter to you?” asked Severne.
“Not one straw.”