“Gay Lothario,” said Jim. “Who is it now? Still the thing in the tobacconist’s shop?”
“No, you ass, of course not. That was only——”
“Practice, to keep the Troubadour’s hand in,” said Birds. “Poor little devil! Think what you make them suffer, Badders. All the little victims in a row, dying for love of the lusty troubadour. Thing in the tobacconist’s shop has expired, I suppose. Who is it now?”
“It’s your grandmother,” said the nettled Badders.
“Well, you have put your foot in it there,” said Birds serenely. “She died last Sunday.”
“Oh, I say, I’m sorry,” said Badders.
Jim, lying on the floor, gave one loud puff of suppressed laughter, and was silent again; Badsley thought it odiously unfeeling of him.
“I say, Birds, I really am sorry,” he repeated.
“Yes, I know. That’s all right,” said Birds quietly. “How could you have told? Dear old Grannie! She always lived with us, you know.”
Badsley knew nothing of the sort, but his face grew long with penitence.