Ritchie grew scarlet. His overcoat—certainly spare enough—was in that place where winter overcoats naturally go in the spring.
“No,” he said sullenly.
“Then I—” began Bradley.
There was a knock at the door. Ritchie flung it wide open, with the air of one who has nothing to conceal. In the hall stood two resplendent young heroes, broadly smiling.
“Still alive, Bradley?” said the taller and older of the two.
They both came into the room as if Ritchie did not exist. Trembling with resentment, he stood aside, collarless, in his cheap striped shirt, with his black hair still wet on his forehead. These three well fed, well clothed creatures, with their vigorous voices, completely filled the room—filled, he thought, the whole world, squeezing him out of it.
In an affectionate and blasphemous manner Bradley reproached his friend for deserting him the night before.
“You ought to thank me,” said his friend, “for leaving you in the care of that peach of a girl!”
“What peach of a girl?” asked Bradley, pleasantly surprised.
The friend recounted the circumstances. No one observed Mr. Ritchie’s rage and dismay.