Julian raised his eyebrows.
“Got to go out?” he repeated. “On a night like this? Why, my dear fellow—”
He paused abruptly. He was a man of quick perceptions, and he realised his host’s embarrassment. Nevertheless, there was an awkward pause in the conversation. Furley rose to his feet and frowned. He fetched a jar of tobacco from a shelf and filled his pouch deliberately:
“Sorry to seem mysterious, old chap,” he said. “I’ve just a bit of a job to do. It doesn’t amount to anything, but—well, it’s the sort of affair we don’t talk about much.”
“Well, you’re welcome to all the amusement you’ll get out of it, a night like this.”
Furley laid down his pipe, ready-filled, and drank off his port.
“There isn’t much amusement left in the world, is there, just now?” he remarked gravely.
“Very little indeed. It’s three years since I handled a shotgun before to-night.”
“You’ve really chucked the censoring?”
“Last week. I’ve had a solid year at it.”