“Oh, it’s so dull,” he said. “I am so bored! And fancy being stuck here all August, as father’s in residence. You’re a ripper, all right, but then you’re a girl. I expect you can’t help. I’ll come and play cricket if you like.”
“I don’t,” said Margery. “Go on.”
“I don’t suppose you would understand,” said the superior sex, “but you see I’ve got to start again. It’s scuggish to smoke or to keep stag-beetles, and I shan’t see any of the chaps I was friends with again (and some of them were jolly decent, in spite of what you say about smoking) except Bags. It’s . . . it’s like emigrating. Of course, it’s perfectly ripping going to Marchester, but . . . oh, well, I feel rotten this afternoon.”
“Oh, is Bags going to Marchester?” asked Margery.
“Yes. I heard from him this morning. He’s going to Adams’s too.”
David’s tone was not that of one who finds a consoling circumstance, and Margery felt her way.
“But you’re tremendous friends with him, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so. He was jolly decent to me last half when a lot of the fellows were against me. But he doesn’t play games, you know, and has got a weak heart, and he’s rather an ass in some ways . . . and he says he has persuaded his governor to let him go to Marchester, just because of me.”
“Well then, he’s very fond of you,” said Margery.
“I know he is. That makes me feel rather a cad. Of course it’ll be awfully nice to have Bags there and all that, but . . . oh, I can’t explain, and you can’t understand.”