“Kitty, I feel I’ve been a horrid beast to you—it’s so often like that when one speaks the truth. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I want to see you happy. I’ll not interfere. You must do what you feel to be right about it.” And with that I left her.
The Bantam was rowing in the college crew that summer. What with training, going to bed early, and keeping up with his work, I saw little of him. The night before the races he came into my room. He looked brilliantly healthy—lean and tanned.
“Are you alone?”
“You can see I am. What’s the trouble?”
He sank into a chair and grinned at me. “It’s all up. I’ve been an awful ass.”
“How?”
“I wrote two letters; one to the widow at Torquay and the other to the actress. They were nice friendly letters, but far too personal. I put ’em in the wrong envelopes.”
“And they’ve sent them back with bitter complaints against your infidelity. Poor old Bantam!”
“They haven’t. They’re keeping them as proof. They’ve both struck out the same line of action and talk about a breach of promise suit. They’re both coming to see me to-morrow, and they’re sure to meet. There’ll be a gay old row, and I shall get kicked out of Lazarus.”
I whistled.