At this Crosby thrusts his arm into his, and wheels him down the street.
‘It must be hunger,’ says he gaily, seeing the other is not ready for confession yet. That the confession will come he knows perfectly well. Ever since they were boys together, Wyndham, whose brain was then, as now, very superior to Crosby’s, had still always given in to the personal attractions of the stronger and older boy, whose big fists often fought Wyndham’s battles for him on the public playground.
Crosby had been a big boy then; he is a big man now, and, in spite of his adventurous wanderings by land and sea, looks younger than Wyndham, though he is actually four years older. A splendid man, bronzed, bearded, and broad-shouldered, with the grand look of one who has been through many a peril and many a fight, who has led a cleanly life, and can look the world in the face fearlessly. His eyes are large and blue, and full of life and gaiety. He has a heart as true as gold, and a strong right arm, good for the felling of a foe or the saving of a friend.
‘For my own part, I’m starving,’ says he. ‘Come along; we’re near our club, and you’ll dine with me. Considering what a stranger I am in my own land, you’ll be able to help me out a bit. I feel as if I did not know anyone—that is, if you are not going anywhere else. There’s a wandering look about you. No? No other engagements? That’s good.’
They have reached the steps of the Kildare Street Club by this time, and presently are in the pleasant dining-room.
‘By the way, talking of engagements,’ says Crosby, between the soup and fish, ‘I have one for to-night, at your aunt’s—Mrs. Prior’s. In some odd fashion she heard I was in Dublin, and sent a card to the Gresham for me. You’—glancing at Wyndham’s evening dress—‘are going somewhere, too, perhaps?’
‘There, too,’ says Wyndham. ‘I’ve got out of it a good deal lately; but it doesn’t do to offend her overmuch. She’s touchy. And the old man, my uncle, Lord Shangarry—you remember him, how he used to tip us at school long ago?—makes quite a point of my being civil to her.’
‘To her, or——’
‘My cousin?’ Wyndham lifts his brows. ‘I feel sure my cousin is as indifferent to me as I am to her.’ He pauses. ‘Still, I will not conceal from you that my uncle desires a marriage between us.’
‘Is this the cause of your late depression?’ asks Crosby, with a quizzical expression.