"What are you going to do this afternoon, old man?" asked George Wainwright, pulling off his coat preparatory to a wash, of Paul Derinzy, who had been sitting silent for the last ten minutes, now nervously plucking at his moustache, now referring to his watch, and evidently in a highly nervous state.
"I don't know exactly, George," Paul replied, without looking up at his friend. "I haven't quite made up my mind."
"Going to play tennis?"
"No, I think not."
"Going down to the Oval, to have an hour or two with the professionals? Good day to-day, and the ground's in clipping order."
"No, I think not."
"Well, then, look here. Come along with me: we'll go for a spin as far as Hendon; come back and dine at Jack Straw's Castle at Hampstead, where the man has some wonderfully-good dry sherry, which he bought the other day at a sale up there; and then walk quietly in at night. What do you say?"
"No, I think not to-day, old fellow."
"Oh, all right," said George Wainwright, after an instant's pause; "I'm sorry I spoke."
"Don't be angry, George, old boy! You know I'm never so jolly as when I'm with you, and that there's no man on earth I care for like you," said Paul, earnestly; "but I've half-promised myself for this afternoon, and until I hear--and I expect to hear every moment--I don't know whether I'm free or not."