"Well, if one isn't interested in one's life, one may be interested in one's death—or the manner of it. In your place, I should enlist. It's better to die of a bullet in South Africa than of fright in London."
That roused the Lover, as it was meant to do.
"I don't really know what business it is of yours, sir," he said; "but it's your business to know that they wouldn't pass a man with a heart like mine."
"I don't know. They're not so particular just now. They want men. I should try it if I were you. If you don't have a complete change you'll go all to pieces. That's all."
The Onlooker got out at the next station. Short of owning to his own lie, he had done what he could to insure its being found out for the lie it was—or, at least, for a mistake. And when he had done what he could, he saw that the Lover might not find it out—might be passed for the Army—might go to the Front—might be killed—and then—"Well, I've done my best, anyhow," he said to himself—and himself answered him: "Liar—you have not done your best! You will have to eat your lie. Yes—though it will smash your life and ruin you socially and professionally. You will have to tell him you lied—and tell him why. You will never let him go to South Africa without telling him the truth—and you know it."
"Well—you know best, I suppose," he said to himself.
"But are you perfectly certain?"
"Perfectly. I tell you, man, you're sound's a bell, and a fine fathom of a young man ye are, too. Certain? Losh, man—ye can call in the whole College of Physeecians in consultation, an' I'll wager me professional reputation they'll endorse me opeenion. Yer hairt's as sound's a roach. T'other man must ha' been asleep when ye consulted him. Ye'll mak' a fine soldier, my lad."
"I think not," said the Lover—and he went out from the presence. This time he reeled like a man too drunk to care how drunk he looks.