He stood silent a long while, with feet apart, looking abstractedly at Somers through his pince nez.
“Ah, well,” he sighed at last. “We shall see. We shall see. But I’m very glad you came. You understand what I mean, I know, when I say we are birds of the same feather. Aren’t we?”
“In some ways I think we are.”
“Yes. In the feathery line. When shall I see you again?”
“We are going back to the South Coast on Saturday.”
“Then let me see you to-morrow. Let me call for you at your house—and bring you back into town for dinner in the evening. May I do that?”
“Thank you,” said Somers.
“What does ‘thank you’ mean? Danke! No, thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Somers.
“Don’t thank me, man,” suddenly shouted the other. “I’m the one to do the thanking.”