“Not to assist your old friend Carraways?” cried Basil.
“He was never any friend of mine; a mere acquaintance,” said Jericho impatiently.
“To be sure; friendship in ill-luck turns to mere acquaintance. The wine of life—as I’ve heard it called—goes into vinegar; and folks that hugged the bottle, shirk the cruet.”
“I have nothing more to say, young man,” said Jericho, turning from Basil.
“Well, I’m not sorry for it,” answered Basil waspishly, “for the sample I have had, doesn’t encourage me to go on.” Basil strove to dash aside his anger, and returned gaily to the party. “And so you’ve taken the Lodge, eh?”
“Yes, Basil,” cried Monica, “and we shall have such a rout to begin with.”
“Then, of course you’ll want your jewels,” said Basil, wickedly. “The butcher brought ’em back, I hope?”
“The butcher! What do you mean?” cried Agatha. “Butcher!”
“There, girls—never mind him,” cried Mrs. Jericho.
“I sent ’em back by the butcher.” A mode of conveyance hitherto disguised to the young ladies. “I met him coming to the house, and on second thoughts I”—