“If the conversation is to develop in a foreign language,” said Timothy, “I would only remark: Honi soit qui mal y pense,” and the polite Mr. Brown laughed again.
“You do not mind if my friend and I have a little quiet game by ourselves, if,” he said humorously, “we swindle one another.”
“Not at all,” said Timothy. “I have no objection to watching, but if,” he said cheerfully, “you should suddenly draw my attention whilst your friend’s head is turned, to the ease with which I could win a hundred pounds by picking the lady, or discovering the little pea under the little shell, or show me a way of getting rich from any of the other devices which the children of the public schools find so alluring at the country fair, I shall be under the painful necessity of slapping you violently on the wrist.”
Thereafter the conversation languished until the train had run through Crewe and was approaching Rugby. It was here that Mr. Brown stopped in the midst of a long, learned discussion on English politics to offer his cigarette-case to Timothy. Timothy chose a cigarette and put it in his pocket.
“That is one of the best Egyptian brands made,” said Mr. Brown casually.
“Best for you or best for me?” asked Timothy.
“Bah!” It was the red-haired Chelwyn who addressed him for the first time. “What have you to be afraid of? You’re as scared as a cat! Do you think we want to poison you?”
Mr. Brown produced a flask and poured a modicum of whisky into the cup and handed it to his companion, then he drank himself. Then, without invitation he poured a little more into the cup and offered it to Timothy.
“Let bygones be bygones,” he said.
“I have no desire to be a bygone,” said Timothy, “I would much rather be a herenow.”