"True; but you seem to think more of your money than your life!"
"I believe I did four years ago," said Dick, smiling, but he checked his smile when Flint looked at his watch and hastily rose.
Dick expostulated, almost to the extent of bluster, but quite in vain; Flint was already shaking hands with the ladies.
"My dear fellow," said he, "I leave these shores to-night; it's my annual holiday. I'm going to forget my peasants for a few weeks in Paris and Italy. If I lose this train I lose to-night's boat—I found out that before I came; so good-bye, my—"
"No, I'm coming to the station," said Dick; "at least I stickle for that last office."
Mrs. Edmonstone hoped that Mr. Flint—her boy's best friend, as she was assured—would see his way to calling on his way home and staying a day or two. Mr. Flint promised; then he and Dick left the house.
They were scarcely in the road before Flint stopped, turned, laid a hand on each of Dick's shoulders, and quickly delivered his mind:
"There's something wrong. I saw it at once. Tell me."
Dick lowered his eyes before his friend's searching gaze.
"Oh, Jack," he answered, sadly, "it is all wrong!"